The double doors swung open. A surgeon walked out, his mask pulled down around his neck.
My mother and I stood up simultaneously.
“The Carter family?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” my mother whispered, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield.
“Ryan is out of surgery,” the doctor said, his eyes conveying a mix of relief and gravity. “He lost a massive amount of blood, and the bullet pulverized the acetabulum—the hip socket—and severed several major nerves.”
My stomach plummeted. “Will he walk again?” I asked.
The surgeon hesitated. “With extensive physical therapy… yes. He will walk. But he will likely require a cane for the rest of his life. He won’t be able to run. And… his career in the Teams is over.”
My mother let out a small, broken whimper and sank back into her chair.
The golden boy. The Trident. The shining future. Gone in the span of thirty seconds on a sun-baked tarmac.
