Jamie used to talk all the time. To anyone. About everything. He was the kind of kid who narrated his Lego builds out loud, who asked the cashier if they liked dogs, who raised his hand before the teacher even finished asking a question. His mom called it “running on radio mode”—always broadcasting.
But that was before. Before the accident on Highway 9. Before the rain-slicked road, the sudden brake lights, and the car spinning like it had forgotten which way was forward. Jamie didn’t remember the impact. Just the chaos. The glass. The screaming. And then the silence.