"Mom..." I yelled. "He's here," she said quickly. Then I heard it—my dad’s voice. An uncontrollable wail burst out of my mouth, loud and messy. "Shh, I’m fine, my daughter." "Can you hear my voice?" he added, his tone light, almost playful, like nothing had happened. But I couldn’t calm down. My vision blurred again. My thoughts spiraled. What if he broke an arm? A leg? What if something was torn or fractured and they were lying to me just to keep me from panicking? My mind wouldn’t stop. I was sobbing so hard my lungs ached. Ava stood beside me, gently rubbing my shoulder. She leaned in to eavesdrop on the conversation, her eyes starting to tear up. “Dad, where are you?... Just go to the hospital,” I begged, sniffling. “I’m fine, honey. I don’t have a single scratch,” he said. His tone sharper than I expected. That was so like him. Mr. Tate—always insisting he was fine. Always brushing things off, even when they were clearly serious. He would do what ever he wanted t
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