The hospital hallway was too bright. It was a cold, fluorescent white that made Aliya's eyes ache, but she didn't blink. She couldn't. She felt that if she closed her eyes for even a second, she'd see the silver SUV again, feel the sickening lurch of the world turning upside down, and hear Carroll's scream cut short by the roar of twisting metal.
Every step toward the room next door felt like walking through deep water. Her ribs throbbed with every breath—a sharp, stabbing reminder of the impact—but the physical pain was nothing compared to the leaden, suffocating weight in her stomach.
"Slow down, Aliya," Martha whispered, her hand firm on her daughter's arm.
Aliya didn't respond. She couldn't find her voice; it was buried deep under a mountain of shame.
