Game Time

Tell ‘em to f*** off and mind their own business 

Can't wait!!!

Thank you. So much. Faith will always be part of Sally now. And expanding. It gives the story grounding. Theresa will have her - important - role to play. Just hold tight. I was going to call this chapter Hospital Diaries, but it felt too bland. A hospital stay is rarely something one writes about with ease—it’s not a setting for tidy reflections or peaceful journaling. This chapter is a mix of private recollections drawn from times I’ve stood beside those who were hurting—not as a patient myself, but close enough to feel the weight of it. Reality always goes deeper than fiction can reach, but I’ve done my best to capture the rawness of Sally’s journey—and the quiet, defining moments shared by those who love her. The earlier part of this story followed Bridget’s own hospital stay, a moment that marked Sally forever, with eternal implications. May this part of the story become such a moment for Adrian and Bridget as well.   Chapter 100 – Coming To Terms. With Life   As the afternoon light softened behind thick rainclouds, the ICU settled into its steady rhythm—machines pulsing, nurses moving like clockwork, whispers and monitors marking time. Sally slept. That, everyone agreed, was good. Bridget sat with a hand resting lightly on her daughter’s blanket, occasionally brushing back a strand of hair from Sally’s forehead. Adrian stood nearby, arms crossed, mostly silent, his eyes flicking to each monitor as though he could learn to read them by sheer will. Roberta had said it was normal—this fragile sleep, the bursts of tears when Sally woke, disoriented and overwhelmed. “Completely normal,” she repeated kindly. “Her body’s healing. Her heart is catching up.” It was nearly 3:00 p.m. when the first bouquets arrived. One nurse wheeled them in—a towering stack of elegant arrangements, tulips, roses, lilies, sunflowers, colors bursting in the sterile space. Some came with notes. Many didn’t. Another nurse followed behind her, arms full of teddy bears, some wearing t-shirts that said things like Stay Strong and #MiracleGirl. A few had cards tucked into their arms. One bear had a hand-drawn card from a sixth-grade class in Hartford. Bridget blinked in disbelief. “What… is all this?” The nurse shrugged with a half-smile. “It’s all for Sally. It’s been non-stop at the front desk since noon. A lot of them are anonymous. Media’s picked it up. Slow news day, too.” A larger bouquet stood out: pure white lilies and blue hydrangeas. A card was clipped neatly to the side. From Otto– “Courage is born in the darkest hour. We are with you.” Another one from Olivia. Tamara and Janice. Familiar names. Close names.  Bridget gently lifted that one and placed it beside Sally’s bed. The rest, she looked at, then turned to the nurse. “Can we donate them? To pediatrics? Maternity? Wherever they’ll bring joy.” Roberta nodded warmly. “Absolutely. That’s a beautiful idea.” Bridget smiled faintly. “We’ll keep the cards. She may want to read them later.” Soon, the room felt lighter, not from the flowers themselves but from the gesture of giving them away. Sally dozed peacefully beneath her blankets, a soft bear tucked beside her, Otto’s flowers standing vigil at her side. The storm still raged outside, but inside, grace was quietly doing its work. -- MIRACLE ON THE GREEN: Teen Survivor Emerges From Private Jet Crash in Connecticut   By staff writer - The New York Times - Monday, Mid-Morning SPRINGFIELD, Conn. — The private jet that went down late Sunday night northeast of Hartford has now been linked to 15-year-old Sally Pembroke-Weiss, daughter of Swiss billionaire Adrian Weiss. Authorities confirmed this morning that the teenager survived the crash with serious but stable injuries and is currently recovering under close medical supervision at Bystate Medical Center in Springfield. The Gulfstream G650ER was on a short-range departure when it went down just fifteen miles from the airport, narrowly missing residential areas and instead carving a jagged trail across a golf course soaked by nearly two days of unrelenting rain. Two passengers were onboard. Weiss is the only confirmed conscious survivor. The second passenger, an adult woman whose name has not been released, remains in critical condition following extensive surgery. Sally Weiss had recently drawn attention online for a series of reflective and faith-focused social media posts—statements that now appear prescient to many of her followers. Her recovery from the crash has already sparked public curiosity and growing admiration, particularly among young people who now see the teen as an unintentional but powerful figure of survival, grace, and hope.   “The Hand of God” Experts familiar with the terrain and flight data have been quick to note the remarkable set of conditions that may have spared Weiss’s life. The jet, descending at high speed, struck the ground at a nearly flat angle, just as it crossed over a sloping green on the north end of the golf course. The combination of saturated turf, a soft incline, and the elongated curve of the fairway acted like a natural arrestor bed—slowing the aircraft’s forward momentum and absorbing the bulk of the impact. One aviation analyst described it as “the perfect patch of earth for an imperfect descent,” a sentiment echoed by rescue teams who dubbed the area “The Hand of God.” The plane ultimately skidded into a tree line, which crumpled the cockpit and tragically took the life of two pilots and one crew member. But the rear fuselage remained largely intact. So too did the wings—an outcome attributed to the unusually soft touchdown and the even weight distribution upon impact. Adding to the string of improbable graces: heavy rainfall soaked the aircraft hours before the crash, dampening jet fuel and likely preventing the kind of post-impact fire that often proves fatal in such accidents.   An Involuntary Icon As news of Weiss’s identity spread, well-wishers began arriving outside the hospital early Monday morning, leaving flowers, cards, and stuffed animals. Hospital staff confirmed that many of the gifts have already been passed along to pediatric and maternity wards in Weiss’s name. Though she has no formal public platform, the teen’s sudden appearance in global headlines has made her an unwitting symbol for resilience—an “involuntary influencer,” as one anchor put it during morning coverage. “Surviving this kind of crash isn’t just rare,” one rescue official stated. “It’s unheard of. She shouldn’t be alive—and yet she is.”   Questions Remain The National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) has launched a full investigation. While no official findings have been released, early discussions among aviation experts suggest a number of contributing factors. A rushed departure may have played a role, with the pilot possibly attempting to capitalize on a brief break in weather conditions. Improper trim configuration at takeoff is being considered, as is the possibility of pilot overcorrection during ascent. For now, those involved with the response are focused less on the mechanics of the crash and more on its singular outcome.   “Sometimes,” one firefighter remarked anonymously, “you walk into a wreck like that expecting the worst. And then—someone calls out. You hear a voice. That’s not training. That’s a gift.” No statement has yet been issued by the family, though a hospital liaison, Monica Molina, briefly addressed reporters outside the facility Monday morning, thanking first responders and especially highlighting the bravery of firefighter Jason Bell, who sustained a broken leg while assisting in Weiss’s rescue. “We are grateful beyond words for the courageous efforts of the first responders on the scene,” Molina said. “This community rallied in an hour of crisis, and because of them, Sally is with us today.” As investigations proceed and official reports are still days away, one thing has become clear: the story of Sally Pembroke-Weiss is no longer just that of a billionaire’s daughter. It is now the story of survival, providence, and quiet courage—on a rain-soaked golf course in the middle of the night. -- Adrian sat near the window, the pale light of his phone screen illuminating his face as he scrolled silently. He hadn’t said much in the last half hour, but the crease in his brow had deepened. Bridget, beside him on the small ICU family couch, noticed. He turned the screen toward her. “They’re calling it the ‘Hand of God.’” She leaned in. The headline was from a major national outlet, accompanied by an aerial photo of the wreckage—jagged metal nestled improbably in the soft green of the golf course. No fire. No charred debris. Just rain-soaked turf and the torn fuselage, oddly intact in places. The image made Bridget flinch. “They’re saying the wet ground softened the impact,” Adrian murmured. “That the angle… the terrain… it was all just right. Like the ground caught the plane.” Bridget stared at the screen. “Like it was meant to land there.” Adrian nodded slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. He scrolled down further—another article. This one showed Sally. A candid photo, smiling on the steps of a private jet – Adrian’s Gulfstream, a helicopter in the background. “Teen Heiress Survivor of Jet Crash.” The words made his stomach twist. Bridget exhaled through her nose. “It’s not like she fell off a bicycle,” she said, quiet. “She was in a privately chartered jet. Chartered by her billionaire father. Of course they’ll make a story of it.” He didn’t reply, but she could tell he hated it. The headlines. The spotlight. Sally’s face splashed across screens while she lay groggy and bruised, with a chest tube and a tangle of IVs. Bridget read a line aloud from the screen: ‘It is a miracle that anyone survived,’ one official stated. ‘Looking at the scene, you’d swear no one could have.’ They both looked toward the closed ICU door, beyond which their daughter lay sleeping. “A miracle,” Adrian echoed. But he didn’t say it cynically. Just quietly. As if he was still trying to decide what that word meant. -- That afternoon, the soft knock on the ICU door came just after a nurse had checked Sally’s vitals again. Adrian looked up from his chair, bleary-eyed but alert. A doctor stepped in—mid-fifties, composed, wearing a white coat with a badge that read Dr. Howard Alton – Chief of Surgery. “Mr. Weiss?” the doctor asked gently. Adrian stood. “Yes.” “I’m Dr. Alton. I oversaw both surgeries today and wanted to speak with you regarding Theresa’s outcome. Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment?” Bridget’s head snapped up. Her expression flickered between concern and longing. She glanced at Sally—sleeping soundly, her breathing steadier now. Then she looked back at Adrian. “Go,” Adrian said softly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Stay with Sally. I’ll take care of Theresa now.” Bridget hesitated, eyes glassy, then nodded. “Tell me everything when you’re back.” Adrian followed Dr. Alton through the corridors. As they walked, the doctor spoke in a measured, thoughtful tone. “I want to say first: I had a chance to observe the latter part of Sally’s surgery. Your daughter is in good hands. Dr. Sharma handled it brilliantly—precise, calm, deeply competent. Everything went as well as it possibly could have under the circumstances. Her recovery will be long, but she has every reason to expect a full one.” “Thank you,” Adrian said quietly, the words thick with weight. They reached Dr. Alton’s office. It was warm and softly lit, a welcome contrast to the sterile halls. As they sat, the doctor’s tone changed, turning more serious. “Theresa’s surgery was more complex,” he began. “She sustained injuries similar to Sally’s—bilateral leg fractures, multiple broken ribs, a punctured lung requiring a chest tube. But she also suffered a spinal fracture and a concussion.” Adrian’s jaw tensed. “Her spine?” Dr. Alton nodded. “Yes. Thankfully, the concussion appears to be less severe than we feared. She briefly regained consciousness before surgery—confused, yes, but responsive. That’s very promising.” Adrian exhaled, cautiously hopeful. “As for her spine,” the doctor continued, “the fracture is stable and has not, as far as we can assess, caused any neurological impairment. No signs of paralysis. We’ll monitor her motor function closely in the coming days. It’s too soon to be certain, but we are cautiously optimistic.” Adrian leaned forward. “She’s important to us. Family, really. I want her recovery to mirror Sally’s in every way. Same standard. Same privacy. Same care.” Dr. Alton nodded. “She’ll be taken to ICU shortly—she’ll be in the room next to Sally. Same protocol. Same team. She’s already responding well in reanimation. We’ll keep her under close observation.” Adrian’s eyes softened. “Thank you, Doctor. Truly.” “We’ll update you again after she’s fully settled,” Dr. Alton said, standing. “But for now… she’s stable, and in recovery.” Adrian rose slowly, nodding. “Then I’ll go back to Bridget. And let her know the other half of our family made it too.” -- Bridget sat quietly by Sally’s side, gently brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s damp forehead. Sally stirred, shifting slightly under the blanket, her brow furrowing. “Mom…” Sally mumbled, voice hoarse. “I think I need to pee…” Bridget leaned in, concerned. “Honey?” “I need to go…” Sally whispered, confused and uneasy, eyes scanning the unfamiliar room. “But I… I can’t move.” Just then, Roberta—her nurse—stepped in, catching the exchange. She smiled gently, already reaching to check Sally’s vitals. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Roberta said warmly. “You’ve got a catheter in. It’s already taking care of that for you.” Sally blinked, confused. “Wait—what? Like… now?” Roberta nodded with practiced calm. “Yep. It’s automatic. You don’t need to do anything.” There was a pause. Then realization. Sally’s face twisted into horror. “There’s a tube… down there?!” Bridget gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “It’s just temporary, baby.” Sally stared at the ceiling, dazed and vaguely mortified. “That’s… that’s gross.” Roberta chuckled softly. “That’s survival. And it’s normal, Sally. You’ve been through a lot. Let your body rest. We’ll probably take the catheter out tomorrow if things keep going well.” Sally sighed, defeated, trying to shift her legs but wincing in the process. She flopped back against the pillow. “This is the worst week ever.” Bridget leaned down and kissed her forehead. “But you’re here. That’s all that matters.” Sally didn’t answer, but her grip on her mother’s hand tightened just slightly. After a while, Sally drifted back into a restless sleep, her hand still in Bridget’s. Bridget watched her daughter breathe for a few minutes—slow, shallow, but steady. Then she gently slipped her hand free and stood, crossing quietly to the hallway where Roberta was jotting down notes on a clipboard. “Roberta?” Bridget’s voice was low. The nurse looked up, her tone still kind but professional. “Yes?” Bridget hesitated, lowering her voice further. “I should let you know… something for when the catheter comes out.” Roberta turned toward her, attentive. “Of course.” Bridget glanced back at the closed ICU door. “Sally… she has a history of bedwetting. It’s managed. At home she uses disposable protection at night. It gives her peace of mind, and she’s never minded—she’s very independent about it.” Roberta nodded, completely unphased. “Thank you for telling me. We see that more often than people think. I’ll make sure the night staff is aware, and we’ll have appropriate supplies ready. No fuss.” Bridget sighed, relieved. “She’s going to hate being this vulnerable.” Roberta gave a small smile. “She already does. But we’ll handle it with care. And no one needs to know more than they have to. Sally’s dignity is safe with us.” Bridget touched her arm briefly, grateful. “Thank you.” Roberta nodded, already turning back to her chart. “We’ll be ready when she is.” -- Sally stirred, her lips dry, her chest sore. She blinked slowly, groggy and disoriented. The steady beeping nearby comforted her. She wasn’t in the dark fuselage anymore. She was in a bed. Warm. Alive. Her eyes fluttered open to find Bridget at her side again, seated in a low chair. Her mother’s face looked older somehow—exhausted but calm. “Mom?” Sally whispered, her voice scratchy. Bridget leaned forward. “Hey, baby. I’m here.” Sally’s eyes shifted, taking in the room. “ICU?” Bridget nodded gently. “You’re safe, honey. Surgery went well. You’re being monitored closely, that’s all.” Sally closed her eyes briefly, then reopened them, frowning. A strange sensation nagged at her. She squirmed slightly. “I… I think I need to pee.” Bridget hesitated, then brushed Sally’s hair off her forehead. “You don’t need to get up, sweetheart. There’s a catheter, remember? It’s already… taken care of.” There was silence. Then Sally turned her head slightly. “And… when it comes out?” she asked quietly. “I’m going to be sleeping a lot, right?” Bridget looked at her, understanding instantly. “Yes. You probably will.” Sally bit her lip. “Then I’m going to need something. You know I still wet… when I sleep.” Bridget nodded, her voice gentle. “I already spoke with the nurse. They’ll have what you need. Just like at home.” Sally’s eyes welled up, but she didn’t cry. She just looked at her mother, searching her face for shame or judgment. There was none. “Okay,” Sally said softly, blinking hard. “I don’t want to have to explain it. Not to anyone.” “You won’t have to,” Bridget assured her. “They know. Just the nurse. She’s handled it all before. With other kids. You’re not the only one.” Sally looked away, her voice small. “I hate this.” “I know,” Bridget said, brushing her hair again. “But you’re alive. And healing. And everything else, we’ll deal with.” After a pause, Sally gave a slow, fragile nod. “Just… not those scratchy hospital ones, okay? The ones from home are better.” Bridget gave a faint smile. “I’ll try and get the ones you like. But maybe not the pink ones, huh?” That made Sally smile, just a little. “Yeah”. Bridget kissed her forehead. -- Bridget sat quietly by Sally’s bedside, her daughter’s breathing now soft and steady in the dim ICU light. The machines murmured gently around them, a slow, constant rhythm that somehow grounded her in the moment. Sally was asleep again, her delicate fingers curled slightly under the blanket, IV lines draped carefully along her arm. Bridget hadn’t let go of that hand for over an hour. She studied Sally’s face—so young, so fragile right now. Not the confident, luminous girl who had bounced into the airport just the day before and too many plans in her head. Now, beneath the medical tape and exhaustion, she looked more like the little girl who used to crawl into her bed after a thunderstorm. Small. Vulnerable. Needing her. Bridget swallowed hard. She had almost lost her. That thought came in waves, again and again. Almost. Just one wrong angle, one spark, one missed second—and there would be no machines humming, no chest gently rising and falling. She looked down at the blanket. Sally had known exactly what to ask. Her first words about Theresa. Then that hesitant question about her night-time needs—quiet, shy, but direct. Like she had processed everything so quickly and understood exactly what needed to happen next. Bridget had felt proud and crushed at the same time. Her daughter didn’t need reassurances. She needed safety. Dignity. Familiar things to keep the fear at bay. That’s what Bridget would give her. She heard Adrian shift behind her. He had been standing near the bed this whole time, watching silently, arms folded. When Bridget turned, their eyes met. “She’s resting well,” he said quietly. Bridget nodded, her voice low. “She’s always been stronger than she looks.” Adrian stepped closer, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then his gaze softened. “You did well. With her. With all of this.” Bridget gave a tired smile. “It didn’t feel like I was doing anything. Just… being there.” “Sometimes that’s everything,” Adrian said. They both looked at Sally again. Her brow was relaxed now. Her lips slightly parted. The strain was easing, at least on the surface. “She’ll wake up again soon,” Bridget murmured. “And when she does,” Adrian added, “we’ll be here.” Bridget nodded. Her fingers tightened slightly around Sally’s hand. Yes. They would be there. No matter what the days ahead brought. -- The room was dim, lights kept low to ease the strain on Sally’s eyes. Machines continued their soft, rhythmic beeping. Bridget sat quietly in the chair beside her daughter, a hand on Sally’s arm, watching her chest rise and fall. Sally had been quiet for a while—too quiet. Then her breathing shifted. It began as a tremble in her lip. Then a sudden gasp, as if she were surfacing from somewhere far too deep. Her eyes opened wide—wet already—and her whole body tensed. She turned slightly toward her mother and the nurse, panic rising, breath quickening. “I remember,” she whispered, barely audible. “I remember everything.” Bridget leaned forward. “Sally—” “The plane. It was going down,” Sally said, voice cracking. “The noise… the sound of the engines… then nothing but black. Then green. Rain. I saw the trees… I thought…” Her face contorted as sobs overtook her. “I thought I was going to Heaven. I thought that was it. I was ready. I was… I was going to see Jesus.” Bridget tried to comfort her, but Sally was past hearing. “I wasn’t scared of dying,” Sally cried. “I was scared of this. Of pain. Of not dying. Of waking up in a body that doesn’t work right. It hurts so much.” The tears streamed now, unchecked. Her small body trembled under the blankets. The nurse stepped in gently, laying a calm hand on Sally’s forehead, then adjusting the IV line with quiet efficiency. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Roberta said softly. “You’re safe now. You’re here. You’re not alone.” Sally’s eyes fluttered as the medication began to take hold, her sobs softening but still spilling as she drifted into a medicated sleep—tears still damp on her cheeks. Bridget stroked her hair, eyes wet but silent. Sally slept, but the memory stayed with them both. -- The ICU was hushed, its steady hum broken only by the soft beeps and rhythmic sighs of machines doing their work. Morning light filtered dimly through the high windows, falling across the smooth floor tiles and the pale blue curtain drawn around Theresa’s bed. She stirred. It wasn’t much—just the slow flutter of her eyelids, the faintest tightening of her fingers against the side of the immobilization board. But the nurse noticed immediately. She was charting nearby, standing at the foot of the bed, and moved gently to Theresa’s side. Theresa’s eyes opened fully, unfocused at first. The overhead lights stung. She blinked slowly, breath shallow. Her body was locked in place, strapped securely against the spinal board, neck and head stabilized. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t turn her head. Panic began to flicker at the edge of her thoughts—but then the nurse leaned in, calm and warm. “Hey… hey there,” she said softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital. You’ve been through surgery, but you’re doing well.” Theresa’s lips parted, dry and cracked. She tried to speak, barely a sound. The nurse brought a small swab to wet her lips. Theresa blinked again, her gaze clearing, her breath catching. Her brow furrowed. She seemed to reach back through fog and pain, finding the one name that mattered. Her voice came out as a whisper, but it was shaped with unmistakable urgency. “…Sally?” The nurse smiled gently and touched Theresa’s hand. “She’s okay,” she said softly. “She made it. She’s just down the hall.” Theresa closed her eyes. A single tear slipped sideways down her cheek, tracing a silent path into her hair. Then sleep took her again. But this time, with peace. -- Theresa lay in the inclined hospital bed, her body carefully braced, bandages wrapped tight over ribs and shoulders, IV lines whispering quietly beside her. The room was warm and filled with morning light, but the air felt still—like a moment suspended. Adrian sat to the side, posture upright, gaze steady. He was dressed simply, a knit sweater and jeans, but the tiredness in his face told of a long, sleepless night. He didn’t try to speak over the moment. He waited. The doctor stood near the foot of the bed, tablet in hand, reviewing the post-operative report. His voice was even, clear. No frills, no drama—just what Theresa preferred. “You have multiple fractures,” he began, “both legs, several ribs. We inserted a chest tube last night—your left lung had collapsed but it’s re-expanding well. We’ll monitor it closely. You’ll be on strong pain meds for the next few days, then gradually taper. Now…” He paused, as if weighing his words. “…the spinal fracture is stable. Very close. No signs of neurological damage. We’ll keep you immobilized for now and reassess in forty-eight hours. You’ll have to be patient through recovery, but the outlook is solid.” Theresa nodded slowly, jaw set. She had been listening to every word. There were no questions. No complaints. Just a steady, wordless acceptance. The kind of composure that didn’t come from training anymore—but from a deeper well. Adrian cleared his throat, watching her. “How are you feeling, Theresa? Really?” She turned her head slightly toward him. Her voice was hoarse, low, but unmistakably clear. “I was sure we were going to die.” She took a breath. “I prayed. First time in years. I had nothing to offer. No reason He should listen. I made things right with God. I asked for peace. And it came.” She paused again, blinking slowly. “I don’t know if this pain will stay forever. Or if I’ll ever walk the same again. But I’m at peace.” Adrian said nothing at first. His hands were clasped between his knees. He nodded, quietly moved. Theresa shifted ever so slightly. “I think… I think this pain is just a reminder of the moment I became His. I’ll take it.” The doctor glanced between them, then gave a short nod, respectful. “We’ll support you every step of the way. You’re not alone.” Theresa’s expression barely shifted, but there was strength in her eyes. “I know.” -- Adrian stood by the window in Theresa’s ICU room, arms folded across his chest, the soft hiss of the oxygen monitor pulsing behind him. Outside, the rain had finally stopped. A grey light filtered through the clouds—muted, but somehow clear. He looked over at Theresa, now resting again, the lines of tension softened by exhaustion and painkillers. Her words echoed in his mind: I became His. A fifteen-year-old girl and a former Marine. One barely stepping into life, the other weathered by it. Both had looked death in the face. And both, in that terrifying descent, had turned not inward, but upward. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. First Sally. Now Theresa. These weren’t coincidences. They couldn’t be. Adrian was not a superstitious man. He believed in patterns, systems, structures. In cause and effect. But this… this was something else. A voice. A call. A warning wrapped in mercy. God had spoken—twice. Loud enough to rattle the foundation of everything he thought he controlled. He whispered to himself, barely audible. “Alright… I hear You.” It wasn’t surrender—not yet. But it was the beginning. A door cracking open. He turned back to the room, watching the quiet rise and fall of Theresa’s chest. He knew he couldn’t afford to dismiss this. God was drawing near. And if he’d learned anything in the last twenty-four hours, it was this: When God knocks, you don’t ignore it. -- Adrian pushed open the door to Sally’s ICU room quietly, only to be met by a distinct groan from the bed. “Dad,” Sally mumbled, half-pouting, “this hospital gown is the ugliest thing I’ve ever worn. I look like a wrinkled cupcake wrapper.” He couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Good morning to you too.” “It’s not a good morning,” she grumbled, squirming slightly. “My legs itch. My chest hurts. This thing—” she pointed vaguely at the catheter tubing under her blanket, “—is disgusting. I hate it. I hate everything. I’m not even allowed to move, and everyone keeps whispering like I’m a baby or something.” “You’ve had major surgery,” Adrian said gently, stepping closer. “You’re allowed to hate a few things right now.” Sally exhaled in frustration, then blinked up at him. “Did they really put me in the ICU just to torture me?” Adrian pulled up the chair beside her and sat down. “No, sweetheart. They put you here because they care. Because they want you to heal right.” She made a face. “Then someone needs to invent a better pajama situation.” Adrian chuckled. “I’ll put it in the suggestion box.” Sally closed her eyes for a moment. “I didn’t sleep well. I kept waking up. And then I’d forget where I was and remember all over again.” Her voice cracked. “It hurts, Dad.” He reached for her hand, wrapping it gently in his. “I know, kiddo. But you’re here. You made it. You’re going to get through this.” She was quiet a long time, fidgeting with the blanket edge. Then, with a shaky breath, she muttered, “Can we get some better pajamas though? Like, as soon as I’m allowed?” Adrian leaned closer, kissed the top of her hair. “Consider it done.” “And maybe socks that don’t feel like sandpaper?” “Negotiable.” Sally cracked a faint, crooked smile. It was brief, but real. Then she settled back into the pillow with a sigh, still exhausted, still hurting—but a little less alone. The nurse had just finished checking Sally’s IV line when the complaints began again—about the itchy socks, the ugly gown, the uncomfortable everything. Bridget, standing by the bed with a cool cloth in hand, glanced at the nurse with a knowing smile. “She’s back,” she murmured. The nurse chuckled. “Complaining? That’s one of the best signs she’s improving.” Bridget nodded. “Pampered Princess has her rights.” Sally groaned dramatically. “Mom…” She rolled her eyes, though the movement was slow and exaggerated from tiredness. “You promised you’d stop calling me that.” Adrian had just stepped back in the room and caught the end of the exchange. He froze for a second—then burst out laughing. A real, belly-deep laugh that surprised even him. “Oh, no,” he said, walking to her bedside. “Next thing we know, she’ll be demanding croissants for breakfast. With fresh orange juice. And warm lighting.” Sally’s lips twitched. She tried not to grin, but failed. “Well, yeah. I deserve at least that.” “You heard her,” Adrian said to the nurse. “We better start calling room service.” The nurse raised an eyebrow, playing along. “I’ll check if we’ve got a pastry chef on call.” Sally smiled, a little bashfully, her cheeks still pale but warming with life. The humor was soft, the room was calm, and for the first time since the crash, the weight in everyone’s chest felt just a little lighter. As the laughter faded, Sally’s smile slowly softened. Her eyelids fluttered once, then again. She gave a quiet sigh and leaned her head back against the pillow, as if every ounce of energy had drained out of her. Adrian stayed beside her for a few more minutes, his hand still resting over hers. The hum of hospital machines was soft in the background, broken only by the occasional muffled footstep in the hallway or the swish of a passing cart. He waited until he saw her breathing steady again, not asleep, but calmer. “There’s something else I want to tell you,” he said gently. Sally’s eyes opened, searching his. “What?” “I saw Theresa,” he said. “This morning. She’s awake.” Sally’s lips parted. “Really?” Adrian nodded. “She’s still in pain. Her injuries were… more serious than yours, but she’s strong. The doctor’s hopeful. No damage to her spinal cord.” Sally’s chest hitched slightly. “I can’t imagine Theresa injured.” “I know,” Adrian said softly. “But they’re optimistic. And—she was calm. Peaceful, even. She didn’t say much, but she looked at me and said something I wasn’t expecting.” Sally waited, her eyes wide. “She said, ‘Tell Sally I’m His now.’” Sally’s hand flew to her mouth, tears springing up again, but this time different—lighter, brighter. “She… said that?” Adrian smiled, his own eyes misty. “She did. Said she made her peace with God when the plane was going down. That she belongs to Him now.” Sally let the tears fall, unashamed. “Oh, thank you, Jesus…” she whispered. Adrian squeezed her hand. “She’s going to be okay. You both are. And whatever else happens, whatever you’re both carrying after this—” his voice caught just slightly, “—you’re not carrying it alone.” Sally nodded, unable to speak. She looked up at the ceiling, eyes brimming, a quiet kind of joy spilling over the fear. Bridget, quietly sitting nearby, turned her face away and wiped her eyes. Sally glanced toward her. “Mom?” Bridget stood, came to her side, brushing her fingers through Sally’s hair. “I’m just glad you’re here,” she whispered. “Both of you.” And for the first time since waking up that morning, Sally closed her eyes again—not from exhaustion, but relief. Bridget watched her daughter’s chest rise and fall, the breath catching slightly over the bandaged ribs. Sally blinked one last time, unfocused, and whispered, almost inaudibly, “I’m so tired…” Then she was still—arms loose at her sides, fingers curled inward, her body sinking gently into the mattress like she was finally safe enough to let go. Adrian reached forward and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured. The nurse stepped back, adjusting a monitor, glancing at Bridget and Adrian with a gentle nod. “Let her rest. Her body knows what it needs.” Bridget exhaled deeply, brushing the corner of her eye with the back of her hand, and took the seat beside Sally once more. They sat in silence for a while, watching her sleep. It was the most beautiful, fragile thing they’d seen all day. -- The ICU was unusually quiet that morning. The machines still blinked and beeped, but softer somehow—less urgent. Sally was propped up at a slight angle in bed, her hair damp from a sponge bath, her face pale but alert. The nurse had just finished explaining the day’s plan. Sally nodded slowly, biting her lip. She looked toward the doorway, where Bridget stood quietly. “Okay, sweetheart,” the nurse said gently. “We’re going to start with the chest tube, alright?” Sally didn’t respond right away. She stared at the ceiling. Then she nodded again, barely. Another nurse entered with a tray, and the lead nurse moved to Sally’s right side. “I need you to stay very still. It’ll be quick, but it might pinch.” She gave Sally a brief smile. “It’s a good sign. This means you’re almost out of here.” Sally gave a faint, grim smile. She held Bridget’s hand while the team got into position. The removal was fast—but for Sally, it felt like forever. A strange pressure, a sting, then a slippery tug that made her gasp and squeeze Bridget’s hand hard. Her chest burned. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. Then it was done. A pressure bandage sealed the spot. “All clear,” the nurse said softly, adjusting her gown back into place. “You did great.” Sally leaned her head back against the pillow, shivering. Next came the catheter. The nurse was kind but clinical. “We’re going to remove your Foley now, Sally. It’ll be uncomfortable for just a second.” “No,” Sally said quietly, almost instinctively. Her cheeks flushed. She looked away. Bridget moved closer, brushing her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “You’ll feel better once it’s out, love. I promise.” It took a moment, but Sally finally nodded. The process was quick, but humiliating. She winced and gritted her teeth. The indignity of it hit her worse than the pain. She felt so exposed, so utterly out of control. A tear slid from the corner of her eye, and she didn’t bother to hide it. “Okay, catheter’s out,” the nurse said, voice light, pretending nothing had happened. “Let’s just give you a little freshening up and then…” She hesitated. “Your mom and I talked, and just so you can relax, we’re going to put on a… a brief. It’s just for comfort. Until you’re up and moving.” Sally’s heart sank. Her stomach twisted. To wear diapers was one thing. But being put into them by strangers... extremely mortifying. Bridget knelt by the bed. “Sweetie,” she said quietly, “I asked for it. Just for a while. You’re going to be sleeping a lot. And they said it’s perfectly fine. No one will know. It’s just between us.” Sally closed her eyes, her cheeks burning. “Okay,” she whispered. Two nurses worked efficiently. Sally tried to stay still as they carefully turned her—one stabilizing her broken legs, the other gently sliding the diaper beneath her. She caught a glimpse of the soft, white disposable padding and wanted to disappear. It was the same kind as her pink diapers – only white. Tape. Fold. Adjust. She felt every moment of it, trapped in her body, unable to help or hide. She didn’t feel so much humiliated as mortified.  “Almost done,” the nurse said kindly, fastening the final tab. “There we go. You’re all set, sweetheart.” When they finished, Sally exhaled shakily. Her body trembled from effort and emotion. Bridget kissed her forehead, brushing the hair back again. “You’re still our girl,” Bridget whispered, stroking her temple. “And you’re doing amazing.” Sally didn’t speak, but her fingers found her mother’s hand and held tight. “We’ll be wheeling you up in a little bit,” the nurse said. “VIP room is ready.” Sally opened her eyes. “No more tubes?” “No more tubes,” the nurse promised. “And… better pajamas?” Sally asked, voice dry. Everyone laughed—softly, but with relief. “Yes,” Bridget smiled. “Promise.” Sally nodded and let herself relax again. The worst part, for now, was over. -- The morning light spilled softly through the tall windows of the VIP room, casting a quiet glow over the pale walls and soft furnishings. Sally had been wheeled in just minutes ago, and though she was still groggy from the move and lingering medications, her eyes flicked curiously over her new surroundings. The hospital bed was wider, the sheets softer, and the decor far more comforting than the sterile blankness of the ICU. Still, it didn’t feel like home. Not yet. Dr. Kavita Sharma walked in with her usual calm presence, followed closely by two women in navy scrubs. She smiled gently at Sally and came to her side. “Well,” Dr. Sharma said, her voice warm, “welcome to your new suite, Miss Weiss.” Sally blinked at her, managing a small, grateful nod. Dr. Sharma turned to the nurses. “This is Maria, who will be your primary nurse during the day, and Carla, who will handle most of the evenings. We have a small rotation team, but these two will be your constants. You’ll see them every day.” Maria stepped forward with a reassuring smile. “Hi, sweetheart. We’ll make sure you’re comfortable and safe. You can call us anytime. Day or night.” Sally glanced at her, then at Carla, then back at Dr. Sharma. She shifted slightly, her voice light but hopeful. “I mean… I guess I’ll be heading home soon, right? Once everything settles?” The way she said it—casual, almost offhand—carried the quiet assumption that this was all temporary. A matter of days. Maybe a week at most. Dr. Sharma hesitated, her kind eyes holding steady. “Sally, I want to be honest with you. Your body has been through major trauma. Two broken legs, fractured ribs, a punctured lung, a clavicle fracture… This isn’t a short stay.” Sally’s face paled slightly. Maria, sensing the tension, pulled up a chair. “You’ll likely be with us here at the hospital for a few weeks. And after that, rehab. Probably months of it. We’ll take it one step at a time.” Sally’s mouth opened slightly, then closed again. A slow breath in. A pause. She stared at Dr. Sharma and the nurses as if trying to re-hear the words. Then, all at once, her face broke. Not a sob, not at first—just the long, crumbling collapse of a brave front. Her brow knit tightly, and her lower lip quivered as fresh tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. “I didn’t think it would be…” she whispered, voice cracking. “That long.” Maria gently pulled a stool up to the bedside, her tone shifting into quiet, compassionate clarity. “Sally, I know this feels overwhelming, but I want to walk you through what we’re looking at, so you can feel a little more grounded.” Sally gave a slight, shaky nod, barely meeting her eyes. “Right now, your body’s still very fragile. Both legs are in casts, and we’re managing the pain from your ribs and clavicle with medication. Your lungs need time to fully recover after the chest tube, so we’ll keep monitoring your oxygen and respiratory status closely. You’ll be here in the hospital for at least two to three weeks, possibly longer. Most of that time, you’ll still be bed-bound—only gradual movement allowed, with help.” Sally’s expression fell further. “We’ll be doing regular physical therapy in small doses to get you ready for weight-bearing. Your casts will probably stay on for six to eight weeks, depending on how your bones heal. After that, you’ll have more physical therapy to help you learn to walk again—gently, with support. That could take months.” Sally covered her eyes with her forearm, curling her fingers toward her forehead. Her breath hitched. “Rehab won’t happen here,” Maria continued gently, “but we’ll transition you to a specialized recovery unit or home-based therapy, depending on how things go.” “Months?” Sally rasped, her voice muffled beneath her arm. “Like… all year?” Maria softened. “We’ll measure in weeks, not months, okay? Because every week, you’ll be stronger. And we’ll be here with you for every step.” A long silence settled over the room. Then Sally let her arm drop back down, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and reddened eyes. She looked at Bridget, her voice trembling again. “What about Theresa? Where is she? She’s not… being sent away, is she?” Adrian stepped in quietly, his voice low but steady. “No, honey. Never.” Bridget leaned over the rail, brushing Sally’s damp hair back again. “She’s family, Sally. We’ve already arranged it. Her room is next door—just like here. She’s going to be recovering with you.” “You mean…” Sally blinked slowly. “She’s staying?” Adrian nodded. “She’s not just your assistant. She’s part of this family. We made sure she’ll get the same care you do, with her own nurses, her own doctors. Everything. We’re handling it.” Sally swallowed hard, her voice catching in her throat. “I thought… I thought maybe after the crash, she wouldn’t be allowed to stay. Or… or want to.” “No,” Bridget said softly. “She asked about you the moment she woke up. You were the first word out of her mouth.” Sally gave a slow, stunned blink. Her chin trembled again, but this time it was different—less fear, more relief. More love. “She really stayed?” she asked, barely audible. “She did,” Adrian said. “And she’s not going anywhere.” That undid her completely. The tears came again—quiet, soft, almost reverent—as Sally sank deeper into her pillows, the ache in her chest not just from the crash anymore, but from gratitude too big for her fragile frame to hold. Maria gently dabbed her cheek with a tissue, her voice warm. “You’ll have good days and bad days, sweetheart. Today’s hard, but you’ve got people who love you. People right here.” Sally turned her face slightly toward the window, eyes puffy, but filled with something steadier than tears. “Okay,” she whispered again. “One step at a time.” -- Theresa lay still, alert and composed despite the tight brace around her torso and the weight of her healing body. The pain was there—constant—but dulled now by the medication and the quiet, sterile calm of the hospital room. Adrian had come in quietly, pulling the chair closer to her bed. He looked tired, but steady. Grateful. Theresa gave him a small nod. “Sally?” “She’s holding on,” Adrian said. “Out of ICU. In the VIP wing now. That’s where you are too, by the way.” Theresa blinked. “This is VIP?” He smiled faintly. “Not swanky by some standards. But it’s private. And the care’s the best we could ask for.” She took that in. “I thought I’d be in a regular room. Or moved to a rehab clinic eventually. I figured Sally would get the best. And that’s good. She should.” Adrian tilted his head. “Sally’s next door.” Theresa stared at him. “What?” He leaned in slightly. “She’s next door. And her recovery’s going to take time. Yours will too. That’s why Bridget and I have been talking. We want you to recover together. Not just in the same hallway—but beyond that.” Theresa studied his face. “What do you mean?” “When you’re ready to be discharged, we’d like to bring you home. With us. Full professional care. A dedicated team, same as Sally. You’d have everything you need to recover completely. Comfort, privacy, equipment, staff.” Theresa blinked hard. “You mean… live at your house? With Sally?” Adrian nodded. “Exactly. As one of the family.” She hesitated. Her voice, when it came, was soft but edged with disbelief. “Why?” He didn’t miss the defiance—or the vulnerability just beneath it. “Two reasons,” he said simply. “First—Sally. Her first words after surgery were about you. She wouldn’t leave the crash site until she knew you were in the next chopper. She asked about you before anything else. Second—when you woke up, your first word was her name. That tells me all I need to know.” Theresa looked away for a moment, swallowing. “She cares deeply about you,” Adrian continued. “And we see that. We see you. You’re not just her assistant. You’re part of her life. Part of ours now.” Theresa bit her lip, eyes glistening. Adrian offered a wry smile. “Just so you know, after she asked about you, her next complaint was about the hospital pajamas. She thought the styling was… offensive.” Theresa let out a breath that turned into a short, painful laugh. “That’s Sally for you.” She winced, clutching her ribs. “Tell her…” she paused, then steadied herself. “Tell her I’m praying for her.” Adrian nodded gently. “I will.” For a moment, neither of them said anything. The hum of machines filled the quiet. And for the first time since the crash, Theresa allowed herself to believe she wasn’t alone. -- The new room was a small mercy. Sunlight filtered through tall windows with sheer white curtains, casting soft gold over the cream-colored walls and polished floor. A small arrangement of bright flowers—Otto’s—sat beside the adjustable bed, and the soft whir of machines now felt more like background comfort than clinical surveillance. There was even a small leather armchair tucked in the corner, where Bridget sat silently, hands clenched in her lap. Sally shifted gently under her blanket, the hospital gown exchanged for a pale blue cotton wrap—still ugly, but less tragic than the ICU one. Her casts itched a little, but not enough to complain. Not today. Adrian stood beside her, hand lightly resting on the bedrail, his posture calm but attentive. He glanced toward the door, then back at her with a gentle smile. “They’re here,” he said softly. Sally looked up, lips pressed together, her throat already dry. She swallowed and gave the tiniest nod. Adrian turned toward the door as it opened, and two figures stepped in—professional, composed. “This is Agent Lindstrom,” Adrian said, motioning toward the older man, tall with silver hair and clear blue eyes that didn’t miss a detail. “And this is Agent Ramirez.” The younger woman nodded respectfully, holding a small notepad and pen, her dark curls tied back and a kind, steady expression on her face. Sally’s eyes flicked to them, her fingers brushing against the edge of her blanket. “They’re from the NTSB,” Adrian explained gently. “National Transportation Safety Board. They’re here to investigate what happened to your plane. You’re the only person who was awake and remembers everything.” “I… I figured,” Sally murmured. Her voice was raspy, still hoarse from surgery, but clear enough. “Do I have to?” she asked, half looking at her mom, who hadn’t said a word since they came in. “You don’t have to do anything,” Adrian said calmly. “But if you feel up to it—and only if—you could help a lot of people understand what went wrong. You’re strong. You made it. That matters.” Sally’s brows pulled together. “It matters because I didn’t die?” she asked, softly but without bitterness. “No,” Agent Ramirez said, taking a gentle step forward. “It matters because you survived, and you saw things no one else could. That makes you… brave. And very important to us.” Bridget let out a soft breath from her chair, as if she’d been holding it all this time. Her eyes were red, but dry. Sally exhaled and adjusted her pillow. “Okay. I’ll try.” Adrian smiled, just a touch. “That’s my girl.” Agent Lindstrom stepped forward. “Then we’ll begin when you’re ready, Sally. No pressure. Just take your time. We’re here to listen.” Sally nodded and looked down at her hands. “I remember… the pilot. He was kind of trying to show off, I think. Acting cool, like, he had aviator sunglasses hanging from his shirt. And it was raining. A lot.” Her voice was quiet, but steady. The room settled into stillness, as the story began. Sally paused, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket as she searched for the words. Her gaze drifted toward the window, where a breeze stirred the edge of the curtain. Then she looked back at the agents. “Can I say something that might sound… I don’t know. Spoiled?” Agent Ramirez gave a small smile. “Say whatever you need to. It’s your experience.” Sally took a breath, pushing past the dry catch in her throat. “I’ve flown private before,” she said slowly. “I know that sounds… yeah. I’m not trying to sound rich or whatever. It’s just true. Private jets, commercial flights, even helicopters. And they all follow this rhythm. You get on. The crew greets you. Someone offers a drink. There’s always a pause. They wait. There’s a method to it. Like a script. Calm. Controlled.” She looked at her dad for a moment. Adrian gave her a gentle nod of encouragement. “But this time,” she said, turning back to the agents, “it wasn’t like that. At all.” Adrian frowned. Agent Lindstrom leaned forward slightly, attentive. “As soon as Theresa and I stepped on board… I remember the rain, our bags barely inside, and the flight attendant—she didn’t say anything. She just shut the door. Like fast. Then suddenly—like, really suddenly—the plane started rolling. We weren’t even in our seats yet.” She blinked, thinking back. “I didn’t get a greeting. No water, no safety talk. Nothing. Just—doors closed, and go. The flight attendant waved us toward the seats and buckled herself in before we were even settled.” Sally looked down at her lap, the memory crawling up her spine. “It felt… off. Rushed. I remember thinking it. But I didn’t want to be a brat. I thought maybe they were trying to beat the weather or something.” Bridget shifted in her chair, arms still crossed tightly. She wasn’t looking at Sally. Not yet. Agent Ramirez jotted a quick note. “That’s helpful, Sally. Thank you. The details matter. You’re doing great.” Sally nodded faintly, still frowning. “It just wasn’t like any other flight I’ve ever taken. Not even close.” Sally’s voice trembled now—not with fear, but with the weight of remembering. She swallowed and pressed her lips together for a second before going on. She tried to reposition herself. The diaper crinkled, and she felt strangely comforted by it. “It’s like they were in a hurry to take off,” she repeated, firmer this time. “The taxiing was really fast. Not just quick or efficient—brusque. Like they didn’t want to waste a second. And then, when we actually took off…” She paused and looked at Adrian, seeking a flicker of reassurance. He offered a calm nod, eyes steady on hers. “The plane took off like a racing car,” she said. “Like the pilot was showing off. It wasn’t smooth. He really pushed it, and I remember thinking—woah. But then I heard Theresa. She cursed.” Sally looked at the agents apologetically. “She never curses. Not even when she stubs her toe. But she did then. And it wasn’t angry—it was sharp. Annoyed. But then… she went quiet. And when I looked at her—” Sally’s voice broke slightly, and she drew a breath to steady herself. “She was white. Frozen. Not scared like when you hit turbulence. Not nervous. She was terrified. Like she knew something I didn’t.” Agent Lindstrom’s brow furrowed. Ramirez didn’t interrupt. “And then I felt it too,” Sally said quietly. “The plane flattened out. Like, not climbing anymore. Just… like it lost strength. Like it didn’t want to go up anymore. I didn’t even have to look at anything. The engines were still screaming, but we weren’t climbing. We were stuck. Like it didn’t know if it wanted to keep flying or fall.” Sally wasn’t even aware she was wetting her diaper. The warmth had already spread by the time she noticed. She blinked hard and paused. Then, she added, “That’s when I knew something was wrong. Not from a bang or a light or whatever. Just… the feeling. It was unreal. I tried to ask Theresa, but she said something, almost in trance, about the pilots not knowing where they were going.” The room was quiet for a moment. Bridget had turned slightly now, eyes resting on her daughter with a new kind of heaviness. The agents sat still, pens poised, absorbing every word. Sally exhaled, shakily, and reached for the glass of water by her bed, her hand trembling slightly. She could feel the wet padding between her legs now. Sally paused, trying to organize her memories. “I remember thinking,” she whispered, “this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.” Agent Ramirez sat forward slightly, his notepad forgotten for a moment. The younger agent, Ramirez’s partner—Agent Lindstrom—leaned in too, but didn’t speak. This wasn’t the kind of testimony you interrupted. Sally’s fingers hovered near the edge of the blanket now, brushing it softly—nervous. Her voice was thinner, fading between clarity and emotion. “There were strange sounds… like vibrations,” she said, eyes drifting as she searched for memory in pieces. “From the cockpit, I think. Not loud alarms. Just… soft computer sounds. Rhythmic. Digital. Not scary by themselves. But with everything else… I just knew.” She pressed her palm to her stomach and winced sharply, her breath catching as the motion pulled at her ribs. Bridget moved forward instinctively, but Adrian gently rested a hand on her wrist—reminding her silently to let Sally speak, uninterrupted. “I could feel we were going down,” Sally said. “Because of my ears. They were popping. And that feeling here—” she touched her middle more gently this time “—you know? Like a rollercoaster that doesn’t go back up.” She paused, eyes fluttering. “Theresa… she looked like she was praying. I’m not sure. I was dizzy. I don’t know if it was from going down or from…” She hesitated. Her jaw worked slightly, then she looked straight ahead and said it. “Fear.” The word hung between them. Her voice cracked next. “I was sure we were going to die. I… I prayed too. I thought…” Her gaze slipped downward. Silence. A tear tracked down her cheek. “But then,” she whispered, “I saw lights. As if we were landing. But it was too fast. Way too fast. There was… grass, and then trees. It all blurred.” Her breathing grew shaky. “Then…” She turned her face away, eyes squeezed shut. “It hurt,” she said softly. Simply. No one said anything. Adrian reached out, his hand warm over hers. Bridget, eyes full, didn’t move. Agent Ramirez cleared his throat, voice low and respectful. “That’s enough for now, Sally. You’ve helped us more than you know.” He reached over to pause his phone from recording. But Sally didn’t answer. She just kept staring out the window, tears slipping quietly down her face. Agent Ramirez stood slowly, pocketing his phone with care. He looked at Sally, his expression a mix of professional gratitude and personal awe. “Miss Weiss,” he said gently, “I’ve been doing this job for twenty-two years. I’ve never seen anything like that crash site. And I’ve never seen anyone come out of it… like you did.” The younger agent, Agent Keating, smiled softly. “The entire country’s talking about you. They’re calling you the miracle girl.” Sally blinked slowly, her gaze still distant, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “That’s… kind of crazy,” she whispered, her voice barely there. “But true,” Ramirez said. “You’re strong. And you’ve helped us more than you realize. Thank you, Sally.” Sally nodded, still tear-streaked, but a little more present now. As the agents turned to leave, Bridget finally stepped closer and sat beside Sally, brushing her hand through her daughter’s hair. Adrian stood as well, glancing toward the agents with a nod of thanks, but all his attention was still on the girl in the bed—the miracle girl whose voice just helped piece together the impossible. -- It was early afternoon when Monica gently knocked and peeked in, smiling. “You have a visitor,” she said softly, stepping aside. Patricia stood just behind her, holding a paper bag with both hands, her eyes wide but bright. She entered quietly, her sneakers making barely a sound on the polished floor. Sally, sitting slightly reclined in her adjustable VIP bed, perked up at the sight of her. Her face was still pale, her cheeks tender and a little bruised, but her eyes lit up with warmth. “Patricia,” she whispered, smiling, instantly emotional. “You came.” Patricia nodded, blinking fast. “Of course I came.” She moved closer, pulled a chair toward the bed, and placed the bag in her lap. “Charlie wanted to come, too, but… he didn’t want to overwhelm you. Ok, he was shy. You smiled at him at the ICU.” Sally smiled wider, touched. “Tell him he’s already overwhelming me. In a good way.” Patricia smiled softly and reached into the bag. “He picked this out. Said you needed something cool to make up for the hospital fashion. He overheard your mom talking to our mom about your style demands.” She pulled out a thick, soft, oversized blue sweater—bright like summer sky—with the silhouette of a classic Mustang printed in bold white across the front. Sally’s eyes widened. It was unmistakable. The car. Her car. Her dream. She reached out with her good arm, her fingers trembling. “No way…” “It’s slit all the way down the back,” Patricia said, turning it to show the neat cuts and careful hand-stitching at the edges. “So you can get it on without messing with the IV lines or your collarbone. Charlie asked mom to help modify it.” Sally blinked back tears and clutched the sweater to her chest. “He did all this?” Patricia nodded. “His idea. Said you hated those pajamas. Thought you’d feel better wearing something you picked.” Sally let out a weak laugh, still clinging to the sweater. “I love it.” “Want me to help you get it on?” Sally nodded. Together, gently and carefully, they managed to guide her right arm through the sleeve, then drape the rest around her torso and over the hospital gown. Patricia pulled the back panels so they crossed softly over her back and sides, giving her a warmer, cozier, more Sally-like look. “There,” Patricia said, sitting back and admiring. “You look a hundred times better.” Sally smiled, eyes closed for a second, letting the comfort settle in around her like a hug. “I don’t feel like a patient anymore,” she whispered. Patricia reached out and took her hand. “You look so much better than when I first saw you. At the ICU, you were asleep. Pale. I thought…” Her voice caught for a second. “We all thought we were going to lose you.” Sally didn’t answer right away. She looked out the window, her gaze soft but far away. Then she mumbled, just loud enough to hear: “God is good.” Patricia met her eyes, tears rising. It was their phrase. Their code. Patricia had said it once, after Sally’s mother had recovered from surgery, not knowing it would stick. But Sally had remembered. It had been the first crack in the wall. Patricia squeezed her hand and whispered back, “All the time.” Sally nodded faintly. The tears slipped down silently now—soft, grateful, no longer born of trauma. Just of love. “Tell Charlie,” she said, “he’s my hero.” “I think he’d like that,” Patricia smiled. “But not too much. It might go to his head.” Sally smiled through her tears. “Good. Let it.” They sat there quietly for a while—two friends who had come through the fire, together but changed. And now, they were still here. Still standing. Still believing. -- Maria stepped closer after a pause, her voice soft, instinctively shifting to the same calm tone she used with her most anxious patients. “You doing okay, sweetheart?” Sally nodded faintly, not trusting her voice. The weight of everything was pressing in again, dull and constant—her body aching, her heart heavy, her dignity frayed at the edges. Maria glanced down, reading the tension in Sally’s posture, the way her hands fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. “Mind if I check your diaper?” she asked gently, giving Sally the courtesy of a pause, even if it was routine. Sally’s cheeks flushed a deep pink. Her eyes darted away, lips pressing into a line. “Do you have to?” she asked, so quietly it almost wasn’t audible. Maria knelt a bit closer, lowering her voice to match. “I know this is hard. You’re fifteen. You’ve had the worst week of your life. And this part—this is the most uncomfortable of all, isn’t it?” She smiled gently, warm and without pity. “But this is where I get to do my job—not just because I’m a nurse, or because someone’s paying me, but because I care.” Sally still wouldn’t look at her. Maria reached out, just resting her hand on the edge of the bed near Sally’s arm. “I promise to be quick and gentle. And to tell you something—this isn’t forever. But while it’s part of the journey, I want to make it as easy and okay as it can be. You’ve been brave through things most grownups couldn’t handle. Let someone else carry the awkward parts for a bit.” There was silence. Then Sally gave a single, resigned nod. Maria moved with practiced grace, careful and precise. She kept a light tone, making a tiny comment about Sally’s stylish sweater, noting how the blue brought out her eyes. When she gently lifted part of the blanket, Sally squirmed slightly, flinching with a half-gasp. “Ticklish?” Maria asked with a knowing grin. Sally let out the smallest breath of a laugh. “Maybe.” “Well, that’s a good sign. Ticklish means nerves are working.” Her hands were efficient, her tone still kind. “You’re just a little wet—nothing to worry about. Let’s get you fresh and comfy.” After pulling a privacy curtain in front of the bed, she raised Sally’s sweater and gown, folding it across her chest. The tapes came off and Sally closed her eyes, and held her breath as Maria expertly wiped her, roled her over, wiped her again and laid a clean open diaper under her.  By the time she finished, Sally had relaxed an inch. The sting of embarrassment had dulled under Maria’s calm and dignity-preserving care. Maria lowered her gown and the Mustang sweater and pulled the blanket back up, smoothing it carefully. “All set. You’re good now.” Sally blinked, then gave a small nod. Her voice came in a whisper. “Thank you.” Maria winked. “One step at a time, remember? And I’ll be right here for all of them.” Sally’s eyes closed again—not from shame, this time, but from quiet, exhausted relief. -- The door cracked open gently and a voice preceded the visitor. “Y’all got room for one more?” Jana stepped into the room with a grin and a large Chick-fil-A takeout bag clutched in both hands. Her eyes went wide the moment she looked around. “Okay, wow,” she said, taking it all in—the sleek furnishings, the warm lighting, the private corner bathroom, and the touch-panel wall screen that could change scenery like a hotel suite. “This ain’t no regular hospital room. I feel like I walked into a movie set.” Adrian looked up from his chair and smiled. “That was pretty much our reaction, too.” Bridget stood and came toward her. “Jana, right? Thank you so much for coming.” Jana grinned, slightly out of breath. “Sorry it took me so long. I was on shift and had to wait for the manager to approve me stepping out early. I grabbed some dinner on the way. You all must be starving. No offense, but hospital food is—well, you know. I know”, she chuckled. She lifted the bag proudly and handed it to Adrian. Adrian peered inside, delighted. “Is that what I think it is?” Jana nodded. “Chicken sandwiches, waffle fries, nuggets, cookies, and sweet tea. All fresh.” Bridget smiled, sincerely touched. “You’re an angel.” “Hardly,” Jana said, waving her off. “Just someone who knows the cafeteria isn’t it.” Adrian took the sandwich out, unwrapped it halfway, and took a bite. He let out a sound of satisfaction. “This is glorious. You’ve just raised the bar on visitor gifts forever.” Jana beamed, then turned toward the bed where Sally was propped up with pillows, her new Mustang sweater wrapped around her like a soft hug. She looked fragile but peaceful. “Girl,” Jana said, walking slowly to her side, “you sure scared us all.” Sally blinked up at her, managing a tiny smile. “When I heard your name on the news, I just stopped in the middle of the floor. Thought it was a mistake. I called Patricia right away, and she told me they were already on their way here. I came as soon as she gave me the go-ahead.” Sally was too tired to speak, but her eyes shone. She reached out her good hand, and Jana took it gently. “Don’t you worry,” Jana said, squeezing it. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re all here. You got a whole crew praying and pulling for you.” She sat beside the bed, gently smoothing Sally’s hair away from her face and then absentmindedly playing with a few strands, braiding and unbraiding them with practiced fingers. Sally’s eyelids fluttered. The pain, the exhaustion, the emotions of the day finally caught up with her. Her fingers relaxed in Jana’s. A faint smile still lingered on her lips as she drifted off again, safe in the presence of love. Across the room, Adrian and Bridget watched silently, touched. A knock came at the door. A nurse entered, wheeling in the hospital’s evening meal on a covered tray. Jana’s face twisted. “Uh… that’s dinner?” Adrian couldn’t hold it in—he burst out laughing. “Exactly.” Bridget chuckled. “We’ve had… better.” Jana looked down at her bag and back at the tray, now being placed near the window. “I didn’t mean to bring food if it wasn’t needed,” she said, a bit sheepish. Adrian shook his head. “No, no. You have no idea how much this means to us.” “Truly,” Bridget added. “You cared. You went the extra mile. That says a lot.” Jana smiled again, sheepish but proud. “Well, I wasn’t going to show up empty-handed.” Adrian raised his sandwich like a toast. “To Chick-fil-A. And to loyal friends.” They all smiled, and for a moment, the room—though shadowed by trauma and healing—felt bright. Full of life. Full of grace. -- Sally was ready—maybe more than ready. It was written in her eyes the moment Miriam stepped into the room. The physical therapist—blond, broad-shouldered, and dressed in fitted scrubs—offered a warm smile as she walked in, clipboard under one arm. There was something grounded about her. Athletic, yes, but with a calm maturity that settled the space around her. “You must be Sally,” she said, pulling up a padded stool beside the bed. “I’m Miriam. Physical therapist. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other over the next few weeks, so I figured we’d better get acquainted.” Sally nodded warily. She was propped up, the sling holding her left arm angled just so, her legs still immobilized and elevated in their futuristic latticework casts. Her hair was tied up, a bit messy. The bright blue Mustang sweater covered most of the shapeless hospital gown. The room still smelled faintly of antiseptic and hand sanitizer. “I’m forty,” Miriam said with a wink, clearly used to breaking the ice. “Just married last year—second time lucky. No kids yet, but fingers crossed.” Sally gave a polite smile. She appreciated the effort. “And you?” “I’m fifteen,” Sally replied, her voice quiet but steady. “I like volleyball. Jogging. Sports.” Her eyes drifted down to her legs—both stiff in molded casts, elevated and wrapped. Her smile disappeared. “Or, I did.” Miriam softened. “You’ll get there again. It’s going to take time, discipline, and a little stubbornness. Which I can already tell you have.” Sally met her gaze. “I want to get better,” she said, firmly. “Fast.” Miriam gave a half-laugh. “Every patient says that.” Sally didn’t smile. Then, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper: “The pain… it can’t be worse than the crash.” That silenced the room. Miriam paused, her expression shifting. She bit her lip, briefly—taken aback. She wasn’t used to working with trauma this raw, this fresh. When she’d been assigned to the recovery of a teenage heiress, she’d braced herself for tantrums. For vanity and drama. She hadn’t expected this kind of steel. This kind of grief laced with quiet defiance. A teenager wearing a muscle car hoodie over a hospital gown, her dignity somehow untouched by the obvious discomfort of a recently changed diaper beneath her blanket. There was nothing pampered about her. Miriam nodded slowly. “Fair enough.” She stood and stretched her arms like a coach before warm-ups. “Okay. Day one’s simple. Breath work. Upper body range of motion. You’ve got a broken clavicle, so we’re going to respect that arm. But we are going to start. You game?” Sally gave a tiny nod. “Let’s begin.” -- By midmorning, the room was quiet except for the low hum of the hospital’s ventilation system and the rhythmic clink of therapy tools being returned to their case. Sally was slumped in her adjustable bed, damp curls clinging to her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, her Mustang sweater now tossed across the foot of the bed. She wore only her gown, her chest visibly rising and falling with the effort of breathing through the ache. Miriam was crouched at the foot of the bed, gently rotating one of Sally’s feet, careful not to disturb the cast. “You okay if I stretch this a little more?” Sally didn’t answer right away. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes focused on a smudge on the ceiling. But she gave the faintest nod. Miriam continued, gently but firmly. It hadn’t started this way. The morning had begun soft, with careful breathing exercises, light arm work on Sally’s right side, and posture stabilization. But once she’d seen how focused Sally was—how much she wanted this—Miriam had decided to push. Just a little. Then a little more. And Sally hadn’t said no. Hadn’t said anything, actually. Not a peep of protest. But Miriam had seen the beads of sweat, the grim determination, the subtle shake in her good arm as she tried to hold herself up during one of the resistance bands. Sally was pushing hard. Maybe too hard. But she’d asked for it. When they finally finished, Miriam handed her a cold damp towel. Sally took it with shaky fingers and pressed it to her forehead. “You trying to break me?” she murmured. Miriam raised an eyebrow. “Thought you said you wanted to get better. Fast.” “I do,” Sally said, not even opening her eyes. “Just didn’t think it would feel like… boot camp.” Miriam smiled at that. “Well, you held your own. I’ve worked with grown athletes who would’ve called it quits halfway through what you just did.” Sally turned her head slightly on the pillow, face still pale. “You sure you didn’t push harder because my parents weren’t here?” “Maybe,” Miriam said honestly, sitting back on the stool beside her. “Or maybe I saw something in your eyes and knew you could take it. You tell me—should I back off tomorrow?” Sally shook her head slowly. “No.” “Alright then,” Miriam said, standing. “I’ll make a note. Sally Pembroke-Weiss—tougher than she looks.” Sally smiled faintly, eyes drifting shut again. “Don’t forget the hyphen.” Miriam chuckled as she gathered her things. She’d pushed too far. But Sally hadn’t backed down. That said more than words ever could. Before she left the room, Miriam looked back once—Sally was already dozing, her body limp with exhaustion, but her face… peaceful. Miriam scribbled one last note in her chart: Resilient. Watch pain threshold. Adjust pacing—but don’t go easy. She won’t want you to. -- The door clicked softly as Miriam stepped out, tablet in hand, jotting final notes. The second it closed behind her, Patricia slipped in from where she’d been waiting quietly in the hall. She’d thought about stopping by Theresa’s room, but when she saw there were already visitors inside, she decided against it. This moment belonged to Sally anyway. What met Patricia inside Sally’s room tugged at her heart: her best friend, slumped sideways in bed, completely drained. The Mustang sweater had been peeled off and now lay folded at the foot of the bed. Sally’s hospital gown had twisted during therapy, riding up, leaving her thin frame and her diaper exposed to the sterile light of the room. Patricia moved without thinking, her footsteps feather-soft on the floor. She approached the bed and gently pulled the blanket up, tucking it over Sally’s legs with care—not too high, just enough to give her back a bit of modesty. She paused, looking at Sally’s face—pale, flushed with exertion, eyes closed but unmistakably awake. Patricia sat in the chair beside the bed and quietly pulled out her phone, checking messages. Jana had texted. On my way, it read. “Thanks,” came Sally’s soft voice, almost a breath more than a word. Patricia glanced up. “For what?” Sally didn’t open her eyes. “You know what.” A beat passed. Patricia smiled and leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice into a playful whisper. “Ever told you you look adorable in a diaper?” Sally groaned lightly, her lips curling in a reluctant smile. “Everyone says that,” she muttered. “That’s because it’s true,” Patricia said sweetly. Silence settled again, easy and familiar. Then, from the doorway, Bridget appeared, arms crossed over her chest, eyes misty. She’d watched the whole exchange. When Patricia looked up and met her gaze, Bridget gave a small, tearful nod of gratitude—nothing needed to be said. The room was quiet but full. Of friendship. Of care. Of the kind of love that covers and stays and knows just what to do, even when no one asks. -- Sally nodded warily. She was propped up in bed, the sling supporting her left arm angled just so, while her legs lay elevated and wrapped in thick, temporary splints. The swelling had gone down enough for what the nurse called “a real upgrade.” A young technician wheeled in a small cart with scanning equipment, followed by a cheerful nurse with a tablet in hand. She had bright teal glasses and an energy that was too perky for mid-morning. Her name tag read: Lena, OrthoMaxCare. “Well, Sally,” Lena said with a warm smile, “today you’re getting something way cooler than plaster.” Sally blinked at her. “ActiveArmor,” Lena explained. “Custom 3D-printed casts. Waterproof. Lightweight. Breathable. And way easier to live with for a few weeks than those bulky things.” She tapped gently on the splint at Sally’s shin. “We scan your legs, and in a few hours, voilà—you’ve got futuristic braces that look more like designer sports gear.” Sally tilted her head. “So… they’re not white and lumpy?” “Nope. They’re strong and sleek and you get to choose your colors.” Lena handed over the tablet, showing a rotating model of a leg cast in different shades—cobalt blue, bright red, neon green, even transparent. Sally hesitated, then touched the screen. “Can I do this one?” She tapped a soft lilac with muted rose accents—a light pink and purple blend. Lena grinned. “Excellent taste. That’s one of our most requested combinations. Pretty and tough. Like someone else I know.” Sally cracked the smallest of smiles. As Lena and the tech began scanning her legs with quiet precision, Bridget watched from the chair, sipping her coffee. Adrian stood behind her with his arms crossed, glad to see a flicker of interest in Sally’s eyes again. “You’ll have your new casts this afternoon,” Lena said as they finished the last scan. “They’ll be ready just in time for tomorrow’s therapy. So rest up. These babies are built for movement.” Sally exhaled slowly and nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.” And just like that, a little spark lit in the middle of her long recovery road—something small, but entirely hers. -- By early afternoon, they arrived—delivered in a sleek black box carried proudly by the same technician who’d scanned her legs the day before. Miriam, her physical therapist, was already in the room reviewing her notes when the box was unlatched with a soft click. Sally’s eyes widened. There they were—two custom 3D-printed casts in a soft lilac and blush rose blend, intricately latticed like fine armor. The material felt cool, sturdy, yet impossibly light. And emblazoned across the outside of each cast, just above the ankle, was a tiny stylized tag in raised white lettering: #MiracleGirl Her breath hitched. “They actually put that on…” Adrian smiled softly from the corner. “Of course they did. Everyone knows.” Miriam helped guide the casts over her legs—firm, snug, but perfectly contoured. Sally winced as they were locked in place, but she didn’t complain. It was the first real step in getting back on her feet. “Just in time,” Miriam said, adjusting the foot supports. “We’ll keep it light today, but these will let us begin actual guided movement. Real progress.” Sally nodded, her resolve returning—but then she squirmed. The hem of her hospital gown had ridden up again. She tugged it down, cheeks flushing as she tried to cover the visible top edge of her diaper. She hated how it looked with her new high-tech casts. Like mismatched pieces from two different worlds. The technician, catching her movement, smiled kindly and crouched to adjust the last strap on the cast. “Sally,” she said, gently, “you’re literally wearing superhero gear on your legs. You don’t need to worry about anything else. You’re rocking this.” Sally hesitated. The tech winked and added, “Real heroes wear whatever they need to heal. Even if it’s tape-fastened.” Sally let out a surprised laugh—a short, breathy giggle that turned into a real one. Slowly, she let go of the hem of her gown. Bridget, watching from the side, blinked fast and looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat. “All right,” Miriam said. “Let’s show these new legs what they’re made of.” And Sally nodded. Ready. Afraid. Brave. All at once. -- The clouds hung low over Springfield, streaked with the last grey shreds of morning rain. Captain Richard Henderson stepped out of the black Suburban that had brought him over from the hangar. The Gulfstream G700 had landed just forty minutes earlier. His cap was in hand, his shirt neatly pressed, but his eyes were shadowed—not with grief, but something closer to disbelief. Adrian met him just outside the hospital café with a firm, tired handshake. “Richard,” Adrian said. “Thanks for coming.” “You know I had to,” Richard replied. “I still can’t wrap my head around it. I just needed to see you. And her.” They sat near the window, away from the noise. Adrian pushed a coffee across the table. Richard accepted it this time, nodding in thanks. “I heard she’s awake?” he asked. “She is,” Adrian said, eyes soft. “Alive. Talking. Broken in a dozen places, but… here.” Richard shook his head slowly. “That should’ve been impossible.” Adrian didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. “I landed at the same FBO,” Richard went on. “Talked to the crew. A few people pulled favors—let me review some early internal footage and logs. There’s not a full report yet, but I’ve seen enough.” Adrian leaned in slightly, listening. “It was a rushed departure,” Richard said. “Fast prep. No checklist. No real comms. I’ve seen overconfident before, but this… this was reckless. They wanted to beat a weather window. No confirmation on trim settings. Took off hard and steep. Too steep. Then, it flatlined—like they lost control of the climb. Disoriented. Mistrimmed. Pitch was lost almost immediately.” Adrian exhaled, jaw tense. “Preventable?” “Entirely,” Richard said. “If they’d done a proper preflight. Slowed down. Double-checked trim, weight, weather inputs. You know the drill.” Adrian nodded silently. “And yet,” Richard continued, his voice quieter now, “the way she survived… The way that plane came down… Adrian, I’ve seen a lot in my years. But this one? The way the jet skimmed across the soaked turf, the angle of impact, the way the fuselage cradled instead of shattered… no fire, no explosion. That wasn’t just dumb luck. That was…” He trailed off. “A miracle?” Adrian offered. Richard hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “I don’t usually use that word. You know me. But yeah. Something protected her. Protected Theresa too. If the nose had taken just a little more force, if the wing had sheared… I don’t know how they made it. Too bad about the crew.” Adrian looked out the window for a moment. “She remembers everything. Every second of the descent. She thought she was going to die. Said she prayed. That she was ready.” Richard stared at him. “She’s fifteen.” “I know,” Adrian said softly. “But she’s not the same girl who boarded that plane.” “I believe that,” Richard murmured. A silence settled between them, not heavy with grief this time, but with awe. With something larger than either man could name. “She asked about Theresa first thing,” Adrian added. “Before anything else. They’re recovering together. She’s pushing through pain just to walk again. And somehow… she’s smiling through it.” Richard gave a faint shake of the head. “That girl’s made of steel.” “She belongs to God now,” Adrian said. “And He didn’t let go.” Richard picked up his cup and stared into it. “Well… if there was ever a time I wished I had faith, this would be it.” Adrian looked at him. “Maybe it’s not too late.” Richard didn’t respond right away. Then he offered the smallest of smirks. “I’ll think about it.” Adrian smiled. “That’s a start.” Richard took a sip of his coffee, then set the cup down with a careful clink. “Lars and Nitaya will stop by later,” he said, glancing at Adrian. “They’re still getting the G700 prepped for the next trip. The news hit them hard. Honestly, all the crew—everybody—has been shaken in the office. You should see our inbox. Sympathy messages pouring in. Even from rivals. People are calling Sally a miracle. She’s… famous now.” Adrian exhaled through his nose, his jaw working. “Yeah. I know. I saw the headlines this morning. Heiress Survivor. Miracle Girl.” He shook his head, not quite amused. “She didn’t ask for this.” “She didn’t,” Richard agreed. “But she’s handling it better than most adults would.” “There won’t be any trips. Not for now,” Adrian said, voice quieter. “Maybe the occasional executive run for the company. But me? I’m staying put. At least until Sally’s back on her feet.” He paused. “Literally.” Richard nodded, letting the words settle between them. Then, after a thoughtful beat, he said carefully, “It’s not the charter company’s fault, you know. They’re one of the best. I’ve flown with their teams. Thorough, seasoned, clean operation. They just had a bad apple. A rotten one. And no one realized.” Adrian didn’t answer immediately. Richard studied his face for a flicker of anger, bitterness, blame—but found none. “Gary, the CEO, called me personally,” Richard continued. “He’s devastated. Offered a full sit-down. With you, legal, whoever you want. No defenses. Just—availability. He’s shaken. And he wants to make it right.” Adrian slowly shook his head. “Tell him I appreciate it. Really. But I’m not angry. Not at him. Not even at the pilot.” He looked down at his hands. “There are things you can’t fix. And some things… they just happen. If I tried to put this on someone’s back, I’d be fighting God. And I won’t do that.” Richard leaned back slightly, watching him, surprised. “You’re sure?” “I’m sure,” Adrian said firmly. A pause passed. Then Richard half-smiled. “Well, if you’re ever tempted to upgrade her travel… the safest option would be to buy Sally her own jet. Keep it in-house. No more bad apples.” Adrian looked up, a small spark in his eye. “Now that… that’s an idea.” Richard’s brow lifted. He knew Adrian wasn’t joking. -- When Captain Richard and Adrian stepped into the VIP suite, the atmosphere was gentle but alive. Bridget’s friends  - Sandra Selter was there too - occupied the lounge area of the room, some sitting close together on the couch, others speaking in hushed tones, their expressions kind and reverent.  Bridget rose from one of the seats and greeted Adrian with a quick touch on his arm. She introduced Richard to the group with a soft, “This is Captain Richard Henderson, Adrian’s friend—and the captain of Adrian’s jet.” There were nods, a few polite smiles, and an audible shift of attention when his title was mentioned. “Pleasure,” Richard offered with a small, respectful nod, still in his crisp uniform. Despite the calm, his presence carried the quiet gravity of someone who had stood at the edge of catastrophe—and didn’t take lightly the privilege of survival. Charlie and his father were standing close to Sally’s bed, flanked by Jana and Patricia. Jana leaned on the back of a chair, arms crossed, while Patricia sat beside the bed, one hand lightly resting on the blanket near Sally’s elbow. Sally was asleep—or so they thought. Adrian smiled faintly at the sight of the room. It was full. Full of people. Full of quiet life. And that was something. Charlie shifted nervously when he saw Richard. The uniform, the posture, the quiet air of someone who knew too much—it made Charlie feel small. Adrian saw it and stepped beside him, resting a firm but kind hand on his shoulder. “Charlie, Michael—this is Captain Henderson. He flies our jet.” Michael grinned and nodded. “That’s incredible. The G700, right?” “That’s right,” Richard said with a friendly smile. “A fine bird. Treats us well, as long as we treat her right.” Charlie nodded, eyes wide, but his lips stayed pressed in a tight line. His usual spark—his nonstop chatter about planes, engines, and flight paths—had gone quiet. It had only been four days since the crash, but ever since he’d seen Sally bruised and bandaged in the ICU, something inside him had changed. The excitement he used to feel at the sound of a jet overhead now sat somewhere deep and heavy in his chest. Richard seemed to catch the hesitation. His voice, as he turned to Charlie, was steady and low. “You like planes?” “I used to,” Charlie muttered, almost embarrassed. He glanced at Sally, as if her broken body would fill in what he couldn’t say. Richard crouched a little, meeting him at eye level. “Can I tell you something? Planes aren’t dangerous. People make mistakes. But the system is built to keep people safe. Layers and layers of checks, backups, procedures. You know how you keep a jet in the sky? You do everything right. Every single time. No shortcuts. No winging it. Precision. Discipline. Repetition.” Charlie looked up at him. “A plane doesn’t fall out of the sky just because it’s raining,” Richard continued. “Or because it’s dark. It only happens when someone forgets that flying is a sacred trust. You break that trust, and it all unravels. But the system works. It really does.” Charlie nodded slowly. For the first time since the accident, something like awe sparked again in his eyes. Unknown to the room, Sally was listening too. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow—but her mind was following every word. She remembered the sensation. The difference between confidence and recklessness. She knew Richard was telling the truth. She had flown with him before. Observed the way he moved, the calm control he carried, the silence of his work, the seriousness behind his every step. Her fingers shifted slightly against the sheet. Her eyes fluttered open. Richard noticed first. He stood up gently, alert but calm. “Sally?” Charlie looked up at the sound of her name. His breath caught when he saw her gaze, bleary but real, settling on him. It was the first time Charlie had seen Sally awake since her transfer from the ICU. In truth, she’d kept a low profile—quiet, withdrawn—especially when more than one or two people were around. Even if her visitors lingered politely in the lounge area a few feet from her bed, Sally remained guarded.  The hospital gown, the sling, the casts, the diaper—covered though it was—made her feel exposed in ways she couldn’t explain. So she kept her eyes closed, or half-lidded, pretending to sleep or fading in and out of it. But now, as she opened her eyes and glanced toward them, it was clear—she was present. Watching. Listening. Still fragile, but trying. He stepped forward, suddenly unsure. “Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, Sally.” Sally blinked a few times. Her body was still, tired, but there was something unmistakable in her expression. A slow, fragile warmth. A flicker of a smile. “You’re awake,” Charlie said, his voice cracking. She didn’t speak yet, but her hand shifted slightly toward him. Patricia caught it and gently guided Charlie’s fingers to hers. Sally’s fingers closed over his, weak but deliberate. “I told you,” Patricia whispered. “You always bring the best out of her.” Richard watched the moment, then looked at Adrian and nodded. “She’s still flying,” he said under his breath. “Still climbing.” Adrian’s eyes were wet. He just nodded. -- Sally couldn’t sleep. It was past midnight. The hospital room was quiet, the soft hum of machines the only sound. Her mother was resting in the bedroom just off the lounge, and her father—still in dress pants and socks—was snoring softly on the sofa. They had talked about getting married again. A real wedding. That plan now seemed paused, not abandoned. Complicated by everything that had happened to her. Sally sighed. Still, Adrian was being a gentleman. Separate rooms. She smiled at that. She wished they’d go ahead with it—regardless of what happened to her. Her accident wasn’t a reason not to move forward. But… maybe it felt that way. She pressed her lips together. She would have to think about it. Her arm throbbed. She reached gingerly for her phone. Her right arm—her good arm—worked just fine, but everything else hurt if she moved wrong. It took some awkward angling to unplug the charger with one hand, but she managed. She hadn’t opened her social media since the crash. Not once. Now, the screen exploded with light—and noise. Notifications. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Comments. Shares. Prayers. Hashtags. She scrolled through the chaos, blinking back tears as she read. Some made her laugh. Some made her cry. She was shocked at how much the world had paid attention. Her X account—once just a place for goofy volleyball clips and pictures of food—was now flooded. Most were kind. Many were prayerful. But a few… A few were cruel. Mocking her faith. Joking that “God must’ve wanted to teach her something.” Others were more subtle—dismissive, skeptical, cold. Sally frowned. She didn’t understand. But maybe she didn’t have to. Her chest tightened. Had she even prayed since the plane went down? She hadn’t. Not really. She hadn’t forgotten God. Not at all. But she hadn’t had peace. Not like that moment in the sky, when the plane was plunging and Heaven had felt so near. That moment was still clear. Terrifying and beautiful. But everything after? The crash… the pain… the exposure… the tubes… the waiting… it all felt so loud. So anticlimactic. “To die is gain,” Paul had said. And she had felt it. The surrender. But now, she was alive. And this felt messy. Still—she was alive. She exhaled slowly, knowing she wasn’t being fair. God had not abandoned her. He had saved her. Held her. And He wasn’t done. She tapped the screen and updated her status. She kept the #MiracleGirl tag. And added another one: #GulfstreamSally. Then, she typed: “I don’t have all the answers. I still wake up in pain. I still remember everything. But I also know I was held. I don’t know why God let me live. But He did. And I trust He’s not done writing this story.” She stared at it for a moment. Then hit Post. Her fingers curled around the phone, resting it on her chest as she rolled slowly—carefully—onto her right side. Her solid side. She didn’t sleep. She hurt. But it was okay. She would sleep later. When the morning nurse came in just before dawn, she found Sally awake, thoughtful, phone nestled against her chest, eyes puffy but steady. She hadn’t slept a minute. But something had shifted. She wasn’t alone. -- They had let Sally sleep all morning. The morning nurse, Maria, had been almost upset at Sally for holding in her pain. She reminded Sally of the pain meds. Just a button away. Sally just smiled and shrugged. She was used to the pain. A bit more was OK. Properly drugged by a zealous Maria, she was coaxed to lie down—her diaper was changed, this time, less awkwardly, as Sally was more accepting now of the strangeness—and Sally… slept. Almost six hours of uninterrupted dreamless sleep. While her social media, activated by her post, took fire and went viral. Sally opened her eyes. She saw a pink strand of hair. A blond head, bent down. Focused. Reading. An old book, faded by use. But cherished. “What are you reading?” Sally asked. Her voice was raspy, but warm. Erika’s head popped up, eyes wide with surprise and emotion. Her cheeks flushed as she snapped the book shut and leaned in closer, a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief softening every feature of her face. “Sei viva!” she whispered, her voice trembling, half a laugh, half a sob. Sally blinked, adjusting to the moment, the light, the presence she hadn’t expected—and yet wasn’t surprised by. Then her eyes dropped to the book still in Erika’s lap. “What are you reading?” she asked again, more gently this time. Erika tilted the book toward her. The Two Towers. “I’ve never read it before. It’s better than the movie” She glanced down, then back at Sally. “Figured now was a good time to start.” Sally smiled faintly. Her throat ached, but her heart was stirring. “That’s a long walk to Mordor.” Erika gave a little grin, brushing the bright pink strand of hair from her face—the one that had fallen across her buzzed temple. “I thought maybe… we could walk it together.” Sally’s eyes filled, but she didn’t look away. “I’d like that,” she whispered. And for the first time all day, she didn’t feel tired. It hit her all at once—like a thread suddenly drawn taut. Sally blinked slowly, her gaze drifting from Erika’s face to the edge of the book still in her lap. The book. The visit. The timing. “Wait,” she said softly. “Your party…” Erika froze. Looked away. Sally’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Erika… you cancelled your birthday party. The one I was flying to.” There was a pause—then Erika gave the faintest nod, eyes still averted. Her throat worked to find a response, but Sally spoke again before she could. “I’m sorry,” Sally said. “I never got to say it. Happy birthday.” Erika let out a breath that caught halfway through, a tear slipping down her cheek. “There was nothing to celebrate,” she murmured. “I was a mess. I couldn’t—” her voice cracked, “—I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t know if you would die. And then it was on CNN… and everyone knew. They understood.” Sally’s eyes brimmed. “I still see it too. The plane. The lights. The feeling in my stomach. I still hear it.” “I see it all,” Erika whispered. “The stretcher. The flashing lights. The rescue team rushing. Just… chaos. And knowing you were in the middle of it—I couldn’t get it out of my head. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to talk. It was too much.” Sally reached forward with her right hand—her only free arm—and placed it gently on Erika’s shoulder. She gave a soft tug. Erika crumpled forward, her face pressed gently to the side of the mattress, forehead brushing against Sally’s pink-and-purple 3D cast. Sally closed her eyes and held on, resting her palm against Erika’s back as Erika’s shoulders shook. She looked up—and there, from the lounge beyond the glass partition, she saw Otto. Standing quietly, respectfully. And beside him… Erika’s father. The famous architect. Dressed down, but unmistakable. Talking softly with Otto, watching with careful eyes. Sally understood then. What had drawn Erika here. What had brought her across the ocean. Not drama. Not guilt. The pull of friendship. Of soul-deep connection. Camaraderie.

I agree.  I'll sit on the front steps with coffee and pee mine sometimes. Off and on reading about pants wetting I get the urge to do it again. I read this section a little bit ago while drinking tea and water. I went to the steps sat down and wet my pants. Now I'm back at my PC sitting on a pad wetting more. That part is a first. I'm going to roam the net and sit here a while more.

It was Covid. I live alone, had just grocery shopped and was laid off. No reason to wear anything but a diaper. I'm not even sure how many days in a row that I went without wearing anything over my diaper, it wasn't until I needed more food.