Twenty minutes pass before a door swings open and a nurse comes out to update us.
“Family of Hart Wilde.”
I freeze mid-step.
My breath catches, sharp and sudden. My feet won’t move at first. It’s like my body needs a second to catch up with my heart, which is already racing ahead.
Then I’m moving.
His family all stands in a loose half-circle around the nurse.
I slow, unsure where to fit in—where I fit in.
They don’t notice me. They’re listening.
So I stay just at the edge, close enough to hear, but far enough to feel like I don’t belong.
“They’ve taken him into imaging.” The nurse’s eyes flick briefly to them before settling back on her notes. “CT scan to check for internal bleeding. He’s stable for now. Still unconscious.”
“He hasn’t woken up yet?” Hart’s mama stands in front of me, and I hear the crack in her voice.
My eyes close for a second. This is the second time she’s been in this position. The first time was because of my father. Now, because of me.
Because I didn’t believe Hart, and I drove him up that ladder.
“No,” the nurse says gently, hugging the tablet at her chest. “But that’s not uncommon. Sometimes, when there’s head trauma, the brain protects itself. It can take time.”
That explanation doesn’t make me feel any better. It just layers on the guilt.
I did this. I did this.
The nurse lingers for a second as if waiting for more questions before she says, “We’ll update you as soon as we know more.”
She steps back through the double doors, and the waiting room swallows the silence again.
Mrs. Wilde sits stiffly in the closest chair, her hands locked around a Styrofoam cup of coffee she hasn’t touched. Mr. Wilde is next to her. His elbows rest on his knees, and his eyes fixed on the floor.
Dean paces in a tight loop, his Stetson clenched in one hand, the brim bent from how hard he’s holding it. Levi sits stone-still between Hope and Harper, jaw clenched. The rest are scattered.
“Hey.” Hope touches my hand. “Sit down. Beside me.”
I collapse on the chair beside my sister, who takes my hand in hers, like I’ve done with her, reversing the roles we play.
“She said he is stable.” She hooks her fingers between mine like we did when we were young.
I’m so worried, I don’t have it in me to hate my vulnerability. To hate how much I need her hand in this very moment because stable means nothing when someone you love still hasn’t opened their eyes.
The doors behind us swing with that quiet swoosh.
And then I hear his voice.
“Is he okay?” My daddy’s voice scrapes like he’s holding everything in.
I freeze.
Then turn.
And there he is, standing just inside the waiting room, Stetson clenched in his hand, hair a mess, worry etched into every line of his face. My mama is at his side, clutching his arm.
