The thick stench of smoke overwhelmed his senses. Blood coated his mouth, the metallic bite almost making him gag. Unconsciousness threatened to pull him back, until the pain radiating from every fiber of his body finally caught up with his scrambled mind.

A cacophony of several determined people shouting over each other rattled through the darkness.

“Bella…”

“He’s waking up!” a woman shouted.

“Mr. Sortin? Can you hear me?” a man asked.

A high-pitched, unending beep-beep-beep and the clank of metal drowned out the stranger’s voice. The noise kept growing louder, as if he were exiting a tunnel.

“Mr. Sortin, you’ve been in an accident. I need you to listen to my voice.”

Accident? Arron didn’t remember any accident. They had been on the way home from dinner when—

Blood smeared the window. Shards of broken glass mixed in her hair.

“Bella! Where is Bella?” Arron’s muscles convulsed at the memory, shaking the operating table, but strong hands held him in place.

That moment had been unnervingly loud, and it all came rushing back. Like his head was held under white water rapids, muffled but thunderous. And the smell. Burning hair, copper, gasoline, and was it… brisket? He fought against the man restraining him, fighting to yank the needles from his arms as he realized—no.

“Bella! I have to get to her!”

“Shit,” the man cursed, forced to adjust his grip, experience helping him use leverage against his flailing patient. “Nurse, let’s issue 50mg of Propofol please.” His voice remained unusually calm against Arron’s thrashing. “Mr. Sortin, Bella is fine. I need you to stay still. We’re working on your spine and movement could prove…”

The voice faded off, covered by the woosh of running water. Arron didn’t fight the darkness claiming him this time.

Bella was fine.

Bella was not fine.

The steady staccato of beeps laced with the whoosh-whoosh of the iron lung attested to that. She lay in the hospital bed next to him, unmoving, eerily resembling Aurora in that old animated movie.

After several minutes of staring at her still form, Arron forced himself to turn from his wife, and focused on his feet again.

“Wiggle your big toe,” he said flatly.

Nothing happened. Zilch. Just like the last one-hundred times he tried. Even the use of a classic line from one of his favorite movies didn’t help.

Sighing, he looked at the ceiling and then again at his Bella. He needed to focus before he got lost in his own self-pity. Bella couldn’t afford for him to go all mopey right now.

She needed him to be strong.

Some asshole decided to go manual in his car on the I-10. When the entire road is a series of cars driven by individual AI, each talking to each other a few billion times every second, and the average speed is 125 mph, going manual is stupid dangerous. It wasn’t even a feature you could normally access. But there was a loophole. In the event of something catastrophic happening, your car could turn control over to the human element. Adrenaline junkies and idiots were all too eager to breach the system when they wanted a rush.

That was how Arron and Bella ended up dual residents of Grey’s Anatomy.

In the car ride home, the night held a promise of creating fond memories. Giggling and laughing. Kissing and gazing into each other’s eyes. Truly wrapped up in the moment with each other. They were oblivious to the other car, and their joy instantly turned into screaming metal, blood, and tears.

The worst part? Ol’ Evel Knievel walked away without a scratch.

Bella’s beeping, whooshing machines dragged Arron out of those dark memories. Sometimes, there really isn’t justice in this world.

A man in a white lab coat came in, a stern look on his face. “Mr. Sortin, we’re ready for you.”

Arron nodded and began the awkward dance of swinging his now useless legs over the side of the bed and lowering himself into his wheelchair.