9:23 A.M.

           AmIdead?

           Iactuallyhavetoaskmyselfthis.

           AmIdead?

           AtfirstitseemedobviousthatIam.Thatthestanding-here-watchingpartwastemporary,anintermissionbeforethebrightlightandthelife-flashing-before-mebusinessthatwouldtransportmetowhereverI’mgoingnext.

           Excepttheparamedicsareherenow,alongwiththepoliceandthefiredepartment.Someonehasputasheetovermyfather.AndafiremaniszippingMomupintoaplasticbag.Ihearhimdiscussherwithanotherfirefighter,wholookslikehecan’tbemorethaneighteen.TheolderoneexplainstotherookiethatMomwasprobablyhitfirstandkilledinstantly,explainingthelackofblood."Immediatecardiacarrest,"hesays."Whenyourheartcan’tpumpblood,youdon’treallybleed.Youseep."

           Ican’tthinkaboutthat,aboutMomseeping.SoinsteadIthinkhowfittingitisthatshewashitfirst,thatshewastheonetobufferusfromtheblow.Itwasn’therchoice,obviously,butitwasherway.

           ButamIdead?Themewhoislyingontheedgeoftheroad,myleghangingdownintothegulley,issurroundedbyateamofmenandwomenwhoareperformingfranticablutionsovermeandpluggingmyveinswithIdonotknowwhat.I’mhalfnak*d,theparamedicshavingrippedopenthetopofmyshirt.Oneofmybr**stsisexposed.Embarrassed,Ilookaway.

           Thepolicehavelitflaresalongtheperimeterofthesceneandareinstructingcarsinbothdirectionstoturnback,theroadisclosed.