Chapter 6 - THE ACCIDENT
Eight months earlier, Noah had been riding a new bicycle at my parents’ house.
Red frame.
Black helmet.
My father bought it.
I had not wanted him riding near their road because it curved downhill.
Dad said:
“You hover too much.”
I was inside helping my mother prepare lunch.
Emma and Noah went outside.
Ashley was on the back patio.
My parents’ driveway sloped toward a residential road.
At 1:18 p.m., someone screamed.
I ran.
Noah lay near the curb.
Bicycle twisted.
Delivery van stopped diagonally across the road.
The driver stood twenty feet away with both hands on his head.
Emma was crying.
Ashley held her.
My mother grabbed me.
“Don’t move him.”
For once, correct.
Ambulance.
Hospital.
Concussion.
Fractured collarbone.
Deep laceration to thigh.
Pelvic bruising.
No permanent neurological injury.
We were lucky.
The driver said Noah had entered the road suddenly.
Emma said:
“He went too fast.”
Ashley said:
“I saw him lose control.”
My father told police:
“The front tire started wobbling.”
I never questioned why three people had nearly identical language.
I had a child in trauma.
The driver’s commercial insurer contacted us.
My father offered to handle calls.
“You focus on Noah.”
I let him.
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My biggest mistake was not trusting family.
It was treating administrative help as if it gave someone ownership of facts.
