The paramedic took one look at my son and went pale.
"No pulse! Epinephrine, now! Prep the OR!"
The driver looked at me, guilt etched on his face. "I'm sorry... the police sealed off all the roads for a bomb sweep. We couldn't get through the barricades!"
I gripped David's limp hand, sobbing his name, praying to a god I no longer believed in.
The moment we breached the hospital doors, they wheeled him away.
I stood outside the operating room, staring at the red light flashing above the door.
If I could trade my life for David's, I wouldn't hesitate for a heartbeat.
But the universe wasn't that kind.
The doors opened. The doctor walked out, removing his mask. He shook his head grimly.
"I'm truly sorry. He arrived too late. The blood loss was catastrophic. We couldn't save him."
A bomb went off in my head, louder than the one in the warehouse.
Yesterday, David was smiling at me.
Today, he was a cold body on a steel table.
Darkness swarmed me. I collapsed.
When I woke, it was the next day.
The doctor told me I had severe burns and a concussion. Every movement felt like tearing flesh.
I limped home, a hollow shell.
When I opened the door, the scene before me made my stomach churn.