The night the sirens faded into the distance and the hospital doors closed behind him, Michael Turner understood that his life had divided itself into a before and an after. The corridor outside the intensive care ward was narrow and dimly lit, smelling faintly of antiseptic and cold air, and every sound echoed more loudly than it should have, as if the building itself were amplifying his fear.
Behind one of those doors lay his daughter, Rebecca, only nine years old, her small body bruised and fragile beneath white sheets, her dark hair spread across a pillow that felt far too large for her. The accident had happened so suddenly that Michael still struggled to remember the details clearly. A moment at a crosswalk, a flash of headlights, the sickening sound of metal and glass. Now the doctors spoke in cautious tones about spinal injuries, nerve damage, and long months of rehabilitation, and every sentence ended with uncertainty.
