Logan sat alone, curled up into a ball in the corner of his room.
His room, lined with white and blue. His room, with rough linen and only one pillow. His room, where the bed had wheels and the TV only had two channels. His room, that had belonged to so many before him, some of them dying in his bed. And so he would not sit on it. He just curled up in the corner of his room, alone, uncertain. Wearing nothing but a thin nightgown that had a slit up his back. And still he was alone. Alone because he was sure he’d been the only one to make it out of the crash alive. The only one. He couldn’t be sure, of course. But he remembered the still face of his mom as the ambulance carried her away. He remembered the odd angle of his sister’s neck and the medics shaking their heads. And he remembered his little brother. Splayed out on the road five meters ahead of the car, skin torn, limbs broken. Undoubtedly dead. Logan shuddered and turned to look at his reflection in a steel cabinet. How did he make it out practically unscathed? The worst injuries he had were a cut just below his chestnut hairline and a bruise below his left eye, seemingly making his eyes turn an even brighter green. He buried his head again, not being able to stand the sight of himself. Something caught his eye. On the end of the bed. He unclipped it slowly.
He read: “Logan Keith Harrow. Seventeen. Stable.”
Then he threw it across the room.