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.

I set the phone down and looked at Brian. His breathing was shallow. His face was pale. He tried to sit up, but I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Stay down,” I said. “Help is coming.”

“It hurts,” he whispered. “My chest. I cannot breathe right.”

“I know,” I said. “Just hold on. They are almost here.”

It felt like hours before the ambulance arrived, but it was probably only ten minutes. The paramedics loaded Brian onto a stretcher and drove him to the hospital. I followed behind in my truck, my heart pounding the entire way.

At the hospital, Dr. Stevens came out to talk to me after they finished examining Brian.

“He is going to be okay,” Dr. Stevens said. “But he has three broken ribs and a mild concussion. He is lucky he did not have any internal injuries. We are going to keep him here for at least two weeks to monitor him.”

I nodded, relief flooding through me.

“Can I see him in a little while?”

Dr. Stevens said he is resting now. “We gave him something for the pain.”

I sat in the waiting room for an hour, staring at the white walls, trying to process what had just happened. Brian had fallen. He was hurt.

And it was my fault.