The accident happened on a Tuesday, which is the kind of detail Miles O'Connell would have found funny if he had not been lying in a pool of rainwater on the BQE, staring at the underside of a truck he could not remember getting out of.
His head was ringing. His left arm was in a position that arms are not supposed to be in. And somewhere in the chaos of twisted metal and shouting voices, he felt something shift inside him—not a broken bone, not a torn muscle, something subtler and more fundamental, like a thread being pulled from the inside of a sweater. The paramedic who tended to him was a woman named Denise, twenty-six,...
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