After burying my wife, I finally unlocked the barn she had never allowed me to enter. For 37 years, it had been sealed off, a place she insisted held nothing but old tools and useless clutter. I expected dust, silence, and memories long forgotten.

He started climbing. I watched him for a moment, then turned and walked back toward the house to make breakfast. I figured he would be up there for a while, checking the shingles, figuring out what needed to be fixed.

I was in the kitchen, pouring coffee, when I heard it.

A loud crash.

The sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

My blood went cold.

I dropped the coffee pot and ran outside.

Brian was lying on the ground near the base of the silo. The ladder was on the ground beside him. One of the rungs snapped in half.

He was not moving.

“Brian!” I shouted, running over to him.

He groaned. His eyes were open, but he was not looking at me. He was staring up at the sky, his face twisted in pain.

“Do not move,” I said, kneeling beside him. “Just stay still. I am calling for help.”

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“My son fell from a ladder,” I said, my voice breaking. “He is hurt. He is not moving right. We are at Patterson Farm, Route 12.”

“Paramedics are on the way,” the operator said. “Stay with him. Do not move him.”