"So, you mean that's it? Your legs don't work? That's insane. Maybe you'll get some sort of superpower!" Jenna Marie Johnston's braids bounced around her shoulders as she skipped around the bland hospital room, her favorite Superman action figure clutched in her hand. The little red neoprene cape flapped behind its plastic body, its outstretched arms giving it the semblance of flight.

Ethan's eyes twinkled, his adoration for his step-sister's optimism blatant. "Maybe, Jellybean. Maybe," he chuckled.

Her dark-skinned face broke into a grin at his nickname. "If you become a superhero can I be your sidekick? You could be something cool, like Blackie or Starlight and I would be... What's something cool?" Her dark eyes looked curiously up at him, expecting some response.

"Well," he started, scratching chin, "How about," he paused, actually thinking of something that would suit the exuberant little girl, "Iridessa?"

"Blackie and Iridessa!" she crowed, bouncing up and down beside his bed, "We're going to be the best superheroes!"

"We will indeed," he assured her, leaning over the railing of the hospital bed to ruffle her hair, "We'll be the best superhero pair ever."

"Like Superman!" She said, jumping back just out of his reach. Almost as if in slow motion, he watched as her Dora the Explorer light-up sneakers slipped on the slick linoleum floor, kicking high into the air. Her tightly-braided head hit the floor with a nauseating "thud," and for a moment, Ethan could do nothing but stare in shock as Superman fell to her side. 

As if all senses came back to him in a rush, and he reached out for her just as the teal door creaked open, a tanned Indian man stepping through the door. Hamad.

"Mister Moiety," he started, eyes glued to his clipboard, "I'm he--" 

His sentence abruptly ended when his gaze traveled Ethan: his outstretched arm and gaping mouth both pointing towards the unconscious form of a five-year-old girl.

"Oh, my." He muttered, ducking back out the door as Ethan stared on stupidly. He still wore the same stunned expression five minutes later, when the door was pushed open once again, this time by a team of nurses. They placed the unconscious girl on a wheeled stretcher and carried her away, leaving Ethan in vacant silence.

It felt like ages had passed before the door was opened a third time. A burly man in a black uniform stepped inside, the radio on his shoulder buzzing.

"So, Ethan's your name?"

Ethan  blinked and finally brought his arm down, letting it fall into his lap. He nodded briefly towards the officer, bowing his head slightly in submission.

"Well, Ethan. You've a mighty record to your name, you know that?"

Ethan reached for the glass of water on his nightstand, and as if it were an offensive gesture, the cop snapped. In the blink of an eye, his arm was handcuffed to the bed. He tugged uselessly against it, but, of course, it held fast.

Ethan smiled weakly, "I'm sure you've made a mistake, sir."

The man (whose nameplate Ethan finally managed to read as "Stromton") gave a harsh chuckle. "No, I think the murder of two and assaulting a child is pretty impressive, if those are the achievements you pride yourself on. I was asked to--"

"WHAT IN HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" boomed a voice. Ethan would've recognized that voice anywhere: it belonged to Raine Moiety-Johnston.

The officer's hands instinctively raised by his sides, as if to say, "I didn't do it." The woman, who had entered the room while he was talking, rounded on him, her voice calmer, yet unwavering.

"What grounds do you have to handcuff my client?"

"Grounds... client?" He started dumbly, "Well, ma'am, if you can see--"

"What. Grounds."

He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Ma'am, this man has criminal charges, it's perfectly legal--"

"I am his lawyer. I will press charges. Now, remove the handcuffs."

The man made an "I give up" gesture and pulled a little silver key out of a belt holster. He held it up to the fading afternoon light, allowing it to catch and reflect little golden slivers against the wall.

"You mean... with this key?"

The woman took a slow, steady step forward, and then another, hand outstretched for the key. She spoke as if coaxing a dog away from a piece of chocolate. "Hand it over, eh? You know you want to." 

He held it out, as if to place it in her hand, but at the very last second, he jerked his hand back. His eyes widened as the key flew from his grasp and made a small hole in the glass window. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the hole, the entire pane ruined. He looked between the woman, who was now standing with her hands on her hips, staring at him as if he were a tomfool, and the window, where the key had flown out from. A feminine voice buzzed out of his radio, but he pointedly ignored that.

"I--" he tried, "I'm... so... Sorry?"

Rather than accepting his apology, Raine Moiety-Johnston was typing on her phone. "You could've just listened to me," she muttered, "but instead you had to act like the brutish naivety that you are. Go," she waved dismissively, "get out of here before you give me more to use against you in court."

Hesitantly, he stepped towards the door. With a glare from the woman, he scurried the final few feet and was gone.

The woman pocketed her phone, wiping her hands together with a sigh. She pulled bolt cutters from her purse and cut the handcuff chain, freeing his hand. She stepped back, examining his face. "I'm glad that's over. Ethan, dear? Are you alright?"

He shook his head, clearing it of any lingering thought, and gave the most genuine smile he could muster. He held out a hand toward the woman. "Hi, mom."

She returned his smile, taking his hand in both of hers. "God, you had me worried sick. What happened? Tell me your whole story, and I mean this as both your mother and lawyer."

He recounted to her what he could remember, which wasn't much, and she listened intently, occasionally reassuring him by squeezing his hand. After he finished talking, she stared at the floor in silence. He didn't even realize that she'd been crying until he heard the patter of her tears on the floor.

"I'm so sorry, honey," she whispered after a moment, "but it only gets worse from here."

He squeezed her hand and replied in an undertone, "I know. It always does."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes. Ethan was half asleep before a thought jarred him from his peaceful dozing.

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey?"

"I-- What did that cop mean, record?"

She took a deep breath before responding. "I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm going to begin by telling you it isn't your fault, and I will prove that to the court."

"Mom--"

"I wasn't finished. Now, you have amnesia from that night, so there's no way you would've known. But that night, well... When you totalled your Jeep, the little Nissan fared even worse."

She let that hang in the air for a minute before continuing.

"The ones in the other car were a brother and sister. Twins. She had just gotten back in town from Dearborn for winter vacation. They were fiddling with their radio, or dancing to it, nobody's all too sure. What we do know is that they didn't see you at the intersection, or maybe they didn't think to check. Nobody knows what color the light was, Ethan."

"Are they-- Here? In the hospital?"

She pursed her lips. "No, Ethan."

"So they're--"

"No, Ethan. They're supposed to be buried this weekend, in Riverside down in Newmarket. I'm so sorry, Ethan, but it wasn't your f--"

"It was my fault."

She let go of his hand in surprise, her eyes traveling to his face. His eyes were fixed on a screw hanging out of the wall across from his bed. He didn't blink, he didn't even seem to be breathing.

"I know you feel like it's your fault, but--"

"No. The light was red. I killed them. It was ME." This time it was him crying. "I tried to press on the break, I tried. I couldn't stop, I couldn't move! I was in slow motion and I-- I--" He choked on his words, falling backwards into the bed. 

"I killed them," he breathed.