lifetime

"It wasn't his wife. It was his daughter."

You turn crooked cartwheels down the narrow sidewalk on the way to the car. You're a mess of springing curls and light eyes and laughter, tripping and stopping to smile about it.

"Their younger one. Tori."

Your door is open first and you snatch up your book from the backseat before I can even unlock mine; I catch the motion-blurred title and hold mine out for you to see. Your eyes light up in recognition- we're both reading Stephen King. Our parents would disapprove if they paid more attention.

"There was some sort of accident. Tom didn't give me many details. But she lost oxygen for a while."

We stumble-run our way back inside, dodging waiters, managers, customers, all regard us with quiet disdain as we pass by, buried, oblivious, inside the open pages in our hands. People we've never met, but could make up a thousand stories for.

"It's been months."

Our families hardly notice when we slide back into our chairs at the crowded table. Not that we care. We're lost in words.

"They don't think she'll be... back to normal. Ever."

You're a mess, a mess of springing curls and light eyes and laughter-

Why didn't you tell me sooner?