Battle, a large squat serious lady who always wears a tracksuit. Tonight she has on a navy-blue number with three silver stripes running the length of her arms and legs. Erin’s mother and father repeat all the information we know. Hit-and-run. Shattered leg. Major reconstructive surgery. After the Quinns explain the metal external fixator—a super-skeleton on the outside of Erin’s leg that will hold the bones in place—there’s silence. What else is there to say, really? Erin’s season is over. Coach shakes his head sadly. Mrs. Battle frowns and says, “Tell Erin the team will visit,” as if that will really help. Everyone nods sort of dumbly and then Coach says, “Finley, I’ll drive you home. Let’s give the Quinns some time to themselves. Erin’s drugged and out for the night. There’s nothing for you to do here.” I look at the Quinns and see that the wrinkles around their eyes are pink and raw. It does look like they want to be alone, so I nod and follow Coach out of the hospital.
