Forty-seven days passed with my twelve-year-old son lying still in a hospital bed, suspended between life and loss after a motorcycle struck him while he chased a basketball into the street. Sirens, flashing lights, and the doctor’s measured voices became the background of our lives. The police called it an accident, explaining the rider hadn’t been speeding or drinking and had stayed to help. None of that mattered to me. All I could feel was rage and grief as I watched my child struggle to breathe
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