15: the number of feet you flew through the air in the incident; the number of days later I’m still thinking about your case.
9: the number of pieces your skull was in when you arrived; the number of upbeat songs I played in my car during my drive home.
5: the number of months you were alive; the time in the afternoon I called my mom, desperately needing to talk about it with someone.
2: the number of caretakers who should have protected you, but didn’t; the number of times I had to fight back tears during your autopsy.
1: the number of blows you received when you wouldn’t stop crying; the total number of post mortems like yours I hope I’ll have to see in my life.
