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Ford was walking in.

His arm in a sling, a bandage on his forehead, another on his neck.

I threw my arms around him. “You’re okay.” I pressed my cheek against his chest. “Thank God you’re okay.” I finally pulled my head back and reached up to his face, holding it, taking him all in. “How is she?”

He wrapped his uninjured arm around me and said nothing for a few seconds. “I don’t know. They took her somewhere, and they won’t tell me anything.”

“I called your mom. She’s on her way here. She’s going to get in touch with your brothers.”

Silence built between us as we stared at each other.

An aching quietness that I felt in my gut.

“That car”—his head dropped, his hand rubbing across the top of his hair—“it came out of fucking nowhere. I didn’t have time. I couldn’t …”

“Ford”—I gripped his good arm, shaking him, making him look at me—“this isn’t your fault.”

“But she’s back there. All by her-fucking-self. And she’s hurt. And that’s my fucking fault.”

“No, it’s not, do you hear me?” I squee