I knew it was him the second I saw the jacket. You don’t forget something like that—not after the phone call, not after the sirens, not after standing in a hospital hallway while a doctor explains your child’s injuries in calm, detached terms that somehow make everything worse. Black leather, worn at the elbows, a faded patch stitched crookedly across the back. I had burned that image into my mind the night my son was hit.
And now here he was, walking straight down the same corridor like he had every right to be there.
My hands clenched before I even realized it. Every part of me tightened, like my body had been waiting for this moment, rehearsing it over and over in quiet, angry loops. I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh consequences. All I felt was the surge of something raw and immediate.
