At the intersection of Commonwealth and Berkeley, I waited for the pedestrian signal. The light turned green, and I stepped into the crosswalk with the confidence of someone who had navigated these streets for over a decade.

The delivery truck ran the red light at forty miles per hour.I remember the screech of brakes, the sickening crunch of metal against metal as the truck collided with a taxi that had swerved to avoid me. The impact threw me several feet, and I felt the strange, disconnected sensation of time slowing to accommodate catastrophe. Glass scattered across the asphalt like deadly confetti, and the acrid smell of burning rubber filled the air.

Then came the pain—sharp, immediate, and comprehensive. My left shoulder felt wrong, displaced in a way that suggested significant damage. My head throbbed with the particular agony that accompanies concussion, and each breath sent fire through what I would later learn were severely bruised ribs.

The ambulance ride to Massachusetts General Hospital passed in a blur of sirens, concerned voices, and the antiseptic smell that seems to permeate every medical emergency. By the time I was admitted to the emergency department, I had managed to call Daniel and leave a message explaining where I was and what had happened.