My name’s Franklin. You’ve been in a car accident. I’m a firefighter. Try not to move. An ambulance is on its way. What’s your name?
Aza. I’m not hurt.” “Just hang tight for me, Aza. Do you know what day it is?
“It’s my dad’s phone,” I said. “This is his phone, and...”
Is this his car? Are you worried he’ll be upset? Aza, I’ve been doing this for a long time,
and I can promise, your dad’s not mad at you. He’s relieved you’re okay.”
I felt like I was getting ripped apart from the inside, the supernova of my selves simultaneously exploding and collapsing.
It hurt to cry, but I hadn’t cried in so long, and I didn’t really want to stop.
“Where are you having pain?” he asked. I pointed toward the right side of my rib cage.
A woman approached, and they began a conversation about whether I’d need a backboard.
I tried to say that I felt dizzy and then felt myself falling, even though there was really nowhere to fall.
I woke up staring at the ceiling of an ambulance, strapped to a backboard, a man holding an oxygen mask over my face,
the sirens distant, my ears still ringing. Then falling again, down and down, and then on a hospital bed in a hallway,
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