(Rebecca's POV)
I hear it through the curtain.
They've got me in the wheelchair by then, hospital protocol, some rule about how patients leave a room that has nothing to do with whether the patient can actually walk just fine on her own two feet — and the orderly's wheeling me out toward the hallway when Jack's voice comes through the thin fabric, small and flat and absolutely certain of itself.
It's my fault. It's all my fault.
"Stop," I say.
The orderly stops, more out of surprise than obedience, I think, and I'm already pushing myself up out of the chair before he can get a hand out to help me, because there is no version of this moment where I stay seated while my son sits twenty feet away convinced he broke something he had no hand in breaking.
My ribs protest. My hip protests l
