Hot steam rising and dancing across the mirror, I lean against the porcelain sink, staring at my reflection. I look like shit. My eyes are shaded from lack of sleep, cheeks drawn in, like old, weather-beaten skin stretched tightly over my skull with nothing in between. Grime from horse stalls wedges under my fingernails, and dark blood stains my coveralls, mostly hers. My forehead and neck are smeared with muck, and my hair looks darker from embedded field dust.

With trembling hands, I wash my face, neck, head, everything. The nurse with the ridiculous headgear is right—I don’t want her to see me like this when she wakes.

If she wakes.

If she wants to see me.

If I’ll have the courage to see her.

All these ifs.

A stern knock breaks my thoughts. “Occupied,” I bark.

“I have some clean clothes, if you want them.”

A glance at my grungy, blood-stained coveralls confirms this is a good idea. Though ideal for tending to livestock on a farm, my dark blue and thick, mechanics-style work garb doesn’t fit here, and the smell radiates from me in this small room—a pungent mix of horse sweat, hay, and manure.

I open the door and accept her generous offering with a calmer “Thanks.”

The teal scrubs clash with my black-rubber paddock boots, not that it matters. I meet the nurse in the hall, and she leads me to a private waiting room.

She equips me with a clipboard and pen. “Fill this out as best you can. I’ll be back with updates.”

“Thank you,” I mutter, regretting how I snapped at her.

I stare at the forms, surprised when I start filling in the blanks with what I learned at the accident.

Full name of patient… Marina Ann Strange.

Age and birthdate… 25, February 14, 2000.

Allergies… None.

Medical conditions… None.

Employment… Sunny’s Beach Market.

My handwriting is jagged, with my hands still trembling. I drop the clipboard into the empty seat next to me and bury my face in my hands.

Marina, please be okay.

I don’t know how long I sit there. Maybe I drift off, repeating the same prayer. But I don’t look up until I feel a firm hand grip my shoulder.

“Son?” My father’s deep but gentle voice, his worn but friendly face, his large, sturdy frame all call to me at once.

I stand, falling into his outstretched arms. “Dad.”

“Wade called. Got here as soon as I could. It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“No, it isn’t.” What’s left of my strength melts into him, like I can’t grip it any longer, and he’s all that’s holding me up.

He pats my back, hanging on while I confess, “I fell asleep, hit her, she’s… she’s hurt, Dad.”

“It was an accident, Grady. Nothing more.”

“No, it’s my fault. She was supposed to get married today...”