REBECCA WALKER.
The letters seemed almost unnecessary.
I had spent twenty-one days lying in that room, learning how quickly an injured person could begin to feel invisible.
Three weeks earlier, a normal afternoon had ended beneath flashing emergency lights and broken glass.
One moment, I had been thinking about what to make for dinner and whether Emma had remembered to bring home the permission slip from school.
The next, there had been a violent sound, twisting metal, and a pressure across my chest so intense that I could not draw a full breath.
My admission had been recorded at exactly 6:42 p.m.
That time appeared on my chart, my wristband paperwork, and the forms nurses checked each time they adjusted my medication.
I remembered almost nothing about arriving.
I remembered light above me, voices asking me to stay awake, and someone cutting fabric away from one of my legs.
