When they finally discharge me from the hospital, the doctor rattles off instructions about rest and medication and monitoring for dizziness, and I nod like I am listening even though all I care about is getting out of that building and away from the constant smell of antiseptic and pity.
Mom signs the paperwork with tired hands, and we walk slowly out to her car, and even the short distance makes my ribs ache and my head throb in warning, but I refuse to let her see how much.
The drive back to the trailer is quiet, and she keeps glancing at me like I might disappear if she looks away too long, and I stare out the window at the familiar stretch of forest and dirt road that leads to our small patch of land.
When we pull up in front of the trailer, it looks the same as always, slightly cr
