And then I remembered putting them on.
After that, there were only fragments. A road sign that wouldn’t come into focus. A horn, much too close. The scream of metal.
Then nothing, for eleven days.
The memory dissolved, and I was back in that bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding.
For the first time, I let myself think the unthinkable.
What if the worst mistake I made that morning hadn’t actually been mine?
“Why didn’t you tell me she asked about my glasses?” I asked Walter gently.
He shrugged, miserable. “I didn’t know it mattered.”
I squeezed his hand. “Neither did I, baby. Until right now.”
Part Six: Not Proof, But Enough
The next morning, I asked to speak with the hospital social worker.
She was a kind woman with reading glasses on a beaded chain. She sat down beside my bed with a clipboard and a careful
