Imagine being told she left him there. “Fled,” they said. Imagine being told they found her the next day, in her bed, hungover, covered in mud and gravel and your kind son’s blood. Imagine being told your perfect son had a perfect pulse and might have lived a perfect life if only he could have had that wreck with a perfect girl. Imagine finding out it didn’t have to be this way. He wasn’t even dead. Six hours they estimated he had lived. Several feet he had crawled, searching for you. Needing your help. Bleeding. Dying. For hours.
