Twenty-Three Minutes
Nick couldn't remember dialing 911.
He remembered the operator's voice.
He remembered Allison rocking Logan.
He remembered blood.
And he remembered the truck disappearing around the corner.
Twenty-three minutes later, the ambulance arrived.
Twenty-three minutes.
To Nick, it felt like twenty-three years.
Logan was alive.
Barely.
The paramedics rushed him into the ambulance.
Allison climbed in behind them.
Nick followed in his truck.
At the hospital, everything became white.
White walls.
White lights.
White sheets.
Machines.
Doctors.
Blood.
Words Nick didn't want to understand.
Traumatic brain injury.
Internal bleeding.
Critical condition.
Allison sat beside Logan's bed in the pediatric intensive-care unit.
She held his tiny hand.
She did not let go.
Nick stood in the hallway.