Page 72 of Caden & Theo

Amelia makes a sharp, choked sound. She presses her sleeve to her face, shaking her head like she can’t take in the words. Then she crosses the room quickly, climbing onto the edge of the bed the way she’s done since we were kids, slipping her arm through my uninjured one like she’s holding me together.

The room tilts.

I hear myself making a sound—something low and broken—and I try to sit up too fast. Pain screams through my ribs, and my head spins.

“No. No. No.” I shake my head, desperate to reject the truth. “That can’t—he can’t?—”

“Theo,” my dad says, firm but kind, placing a steady hand on my good shoulder. “You need to breathe.”

But I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest.

“I did this.” The words fall from my mouth before I can stop them. “I fell asleep. I was driving and I fell asleep and now he—” My voice shatters, just like everything else inside me. “He’s never going to play again. I ruined his life.”

Amelia stands and Mom’s arms wrap around me gently as I sob, broken and full of guilt. I feel her trying to soothe me, whispering things like “It was an accident” and “You didn’t mean for this to happen” and “You love him so much.”

But none of that matters.

Love doesn’t give him his leg back.

Love doesn’t give him basketball.

Love doesn’t erase the sound of metal crunching or the image of blood and flesh and twisted bone or the weight of his hand in mine as he drifted in and out of consciousness, scared and hurting and trying to stay awake.

“I can’t ever look at him again,” I whisper into her shoulder. “How can I? How can he?”

My dad crouches down beside the bed. “Because he’s alive. And he’s still here, Theo. And he loves you. That hasn’t changed.”

“You don’t know that,” I whisper.

“Yes, I do.” His voice is unwavering. “He loves you.”

From the corner of the room, Amelia’s voice wavers. “Of course he does.” I turn my head, and she’s standing there stiff, her arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s holding something in. “You think he’s gonna let go of you just because of this? No way.” She swipes at her cheek with the heel of her hand, sniffling hard. “You’re stuck with each other. Everybody knows that.”

Her words are shaky but fierce, and they punch through the fog for a second, like only a younger sister’s could.

I wipe at my eyes with my good hand, blinking through the tears. “Can I see him?”

They don’t answer right away. My mom glances at my dad. He looks toward the closed door. There’s hesitation. Too much of it.

“Not yet,” my mom says softly. “They’re keeping him in intensive care. They’re monitoring everything closely. You need to rest and heal too.”

“No,” I say, but the word is weak, barely a protest. “Please.”

My mom takes my hand gently, her thumb stroking over my knuckles. “We know you want to see him, baby. But they’re not letting anyone in yet. Not even us.”

“Caden’s parents went straight to him,” my dad adds, voice low. “They were taken to the ICU as soon as they landed. He’s still being monitored. It’s serious.”

That knowledge shatters something deep inside me. The fact that they’re with him—where I should be—makes the emptinessin my chest crack wider. They’re at his side while I’m stuck here. We might as well be separated by miles even though we’re in the same building.

I nod, or I think I do. My body feels too heavy to be sure.

The pain in my ribs pulses with each breath. My broken arm lies useless at my side, the cast a dull, throbbing reminder. My numb fingers, though, still manage to keep a tight grip on the LEGO figure, which I found on the small table by my bed. My head pounds with every heartbeat, but none of it compares to the ache in my chest.

The weight of knowing the person I love more than anything in this world is lying in a hospital bed just like me—only worse, so much worse—is almost too much. And there’s nothing I can do.

Not yet. Not until they let me.

Not until he’s ready. Not until someone says it’s okay.