I can't feel my body. The drugs numb me. They don't numb my mind, though. That races, replaying everything that happened, hyper-focusing on the details. The bridge collapsed in the rush of floodwaters. This stupid state and their goddamned budget problems skipped a few inspections here and there. They bet on certain areas never getting rain. And then the rain came.
My father has had the news on in my room. I've heard it-the bridge collapse on one-eighty-five. They talk about our bus. They have footage of the wreckage. They've tried to talk to my father about me. They've ambushed my friends. I was the one injured, the only one injured-other than the bus driver who had a concussion and my father who had a broken arm.
Nobody talks about Wes. Even my father whispers when Kyle asks if he's heard anything. I heard a small blip, once, that there was a search for one of the students who was caught in the floodwaters. But then nothing.
"It's late, Kyle," my father says. I hear a chair shift and Kyle's heavy feet hit the floor.
"It's okay. I don't have to work today. I … he said I could take time off," Kyle says. His voice is sleepy. He's losing it. He used to lose his voice when he'd stay awake all night with me at his house. Go home, Kyle. You're tired.
"Nothing's going to change, Ky," my father says. My eyes twitch under their lids hearing him speak to my friend with the familiar name he used to give him-shortened Ky. They have each other. "Go on, get home. You can come back tomorrow. I don't give a shit what the nurses say about you visiting."
Good. I don't give a shit either.
It's quiet for a few minutes, but eventually the chair slides again, and I hear it move all the way to the opposite side of the room. I feel Kyle step closer. I should open my eyes. But I don't want to-not yet. I'm going to stay in this dream for a little longer; avoid the nightmare.
"Hey, JJ," he says. I feel his hand grab mine, and I fight my instinct to squeeze it back. "I'll see ya tomorrow."
His hand slips away, and a few seconds later, I hear the door close. My father's sigh is long, but he's not leaving. His own chair moves, and I feel the bed shift slightly as he rests a leg up on the end. He's getting comfortable for the night. He won't leave. I heard the nurse say he hasn't left since they set his arm.
"Are they still looking for him?" I ask. My lips are so dry, the words crack them open when I speak. My voice is a whisper, and it cuts my throat.
My father's foot remains still. He's quiet. But I hear him breathe slowly, a long inhale and exhale. I'm pretty sure he knew I was awake, but he's also relieved. I don't look at him, but I can hear him tremble when he speaks.
"They're still looking," he says.
I don't say anything more. He doesn't ask any questions. I feel the threat of my first tear form in one eye, and I let it fall to the cool sheet under my head. After a few minutes, I feel my father's hand close around mine, and his head falls against my shoulder. The weight of it shakes with small tremors. He's crying. I squeeze his hand back, and he stops. He leaves his head on my arm, and I hear the sniffles as he tries to be strong.
He's not ready to tell me the rest. I'm not ready to hear it. But I know my leg is gone.
The pretending could only go on for so long. The next morning, it was time to start the long climb through reality.
Infection. Nerve damage. The bone snapped completely. Everyone who spoke to me gave me the same details and timeline-they had to make decisions fast. They worked to repair what they could right after the accident, but the infection was spreading quickly. It was making me sick, risking more of my leg-risking my life. I had been here for four days, almost five. At the beginning of day two, the decision was made to cut off my right leg below the knee. Mid-calf, I'm told. I wouldn't know. I won't look at it. I refuse.
As much as I can't feel anything … somehow, I still feel my missing lower leg. That's the first thing I felt when I started to wake-pain. A sensation that wasn't there because my leg-it wasn't there. Then that ache shifted to my heart.
"Joss, I'm going to change the dressing. We're going to set a hard cast over everything later today, which means you'll get to go home," the doctor says. He seems really impressed with his work. I hate the way he admires it.
"Okay," I say. I've also learned I have to respond. If I don't, the adults begin to whisper. They start to talk to me in that fragile voice, the one used on infants and people who are at risk of losing it.
I've lost everything, so what does it matter?
"Okay," I say to her next question.
I never smile. I don't make eye contact. For the last twenty hours, I've done nothing but stare out the University Hospital window, my eyes searching for something. I'm searching for him.
Several minutes pass. I move for the nurse and her assistant. I do what I need to do so they'll leave, so I can go home-even though I know I'll hate it there even more. At least at home I can hide in the familiar.
"I called the Jungle Gym. Kyle said he talked to your boss too. You can take as long as you need. He said he'd hold the job for you," my father says. Like I'm what? Getting over a fucking cold?
"Call him back and tell him I quit," I say, my eyes wide on the window. The cars far below weave in a pattern I've memorized. It's the timing of the lights. Six get to turn, twenty get to pass, and then it starts all over again.
"Joss, don't give up on something. You might want to go back; you loved that job. The psychologist said familiar is good … " my father says. He sounds like a brochure.
"Have they found him yet?" I say, ignoring his plea to keep my shitty job because it's good for me mentally. The only thing I liked about that job was the boy who gave me a ride home at night. Find him and I'll go back.
What if they never find him?
"They're still searching," my father answers. His response is several seconds late. He doesn't think they will. He doesn't know Wes.
"It looks like you get to come home tonight … if they get you through the cast part early enough. Kyle is at the house. So is Conner. They helped move some things around, so you can … "
He doesn't finish. They moved furniture so I could get to my room in a wheelchair. I logged that part of our conversation with the doctor too. I said crutches were fine, but my father heard it might make it harder for me to learn my center of balance when I get a prosthetic.
"I'm not going to play ever again, you know?" I say, my back still to him. I think it's more comfortable for him this way too. He never answers me. Maybe he needs to believe that he can make me better-be part of my miracle. I let him.
The sound of the television clicking on drowns out everything else, and I let the white noise of some college basketball game take over for our conversation. Hours pass, and my father and I don't say another word to each other. He trails behind as I'm wheeled to another room where my cast is set. They want to protect the skin, let it heal without me risking any setbacks or damage to the wound.
I never want to move. I'm not sure how I could do any damage to anything other than my soul, and that's already gone. Or at least … it's missing.
When we get back to my room, my things are all packed. There's a bag on the bed-my duffel from home. My phone is sitting on top of the zipped part. I haven't looked at it other than once, briefly, to see if any of the hundreds of texts and messages were from Wes. They weren't.
"I'm leaving now?" I say, my eyes zeroing in on how small my bag is. My things fit in such a small space, and I'm going to another small space, to live a small life.
"Heyyyyy … ." Taryn's voice hums from behind me. My eyes flutter to a close. That's her awkward hey-the one she spoke when my mom died. She used it the first time I needed stitches, and she was staring at the cut on my chin. She used it the first time I tried cutting a chunk out of my hair in the back because my dad wouldn't take me to shave it. She's using it now.
"Hey," I say back. I almost amuse myself. Almost.
"I packed your things. I told your dad I'd help you get settled in," she says, shifting to sit in front of me. She perches on the edge of my bed, ready to sprint. I don't like how everyone feels like they have to catch me. I just want to be left alone.
My mouth is in a straight line, and I don't have anything to say. The discomfort of the silence grows until she has to stand. She walks behind me, my bag in tow, and someone pushes me in the chair until we stop at my doctor-the one impressed with his cutting-and-sewing job.
"If things heal well, we're looking at fitting her in two, maybe three months. It's going to be important that she maintains her strength, and we want to try to keep her off crutches, as much as possible," the doctor says. He's not looking at me. He's speaking to my father.