“The car ran over your legs.” “It wasn’t the driver’s fault,” I said. She nodded. “You had a very, very fine surgeon. All the breaks are below the knees. God—” She stopped. “They thought you might lose your legs—” She stopped and wiped the tears from her face. “I’m never going to let you out of the house, ever again.” “Fascist,” I whispered. She kissed me. “You sweet, beautiful kid.” “I’m not that sweet, Mom.” “Don’t argue with me.” “Okay,” I said. “I’m sweet.” She started crying again. “It’s okay,” I said. “Everything’s okay.”
