My back hits the firm surface of the stretcher. I struggle to keep my eyes open to the aftermath. The air smells of blood. The pavement is bathed in broken glass and the flashing blue and red lights of emergency vehicles. I want my mom. My throat is dry and scratchy. A masculine voice responds. Im sorry. Theres no other room on the chopper. They wheel me toward the helicopter waiting to take me to the hospital. I groan in protest.