C8 8

I lower myself into a chair, still too shaken by the sight of Isaiah like this to trust my legs.

“They said I broke my femur,” he whispers. “And a couple of ribs.”

I nod, not that he can see me. He can’t seem to keep his eyes open. I want to ask him what on earth he thought he was doing, getting behind the wheel after drinking, and why the fuck he was drinking in the first place. Instead, I say