I don’t know how many girls made it out.
The nurse at the counter tells me to fill in the ‘crash report.’
Everything is white, bleeding into each other —the nurses station, uniforms, swinging doors, walls and ceiling and memory, even the car ramming into large cubical objects, the remains of engine parts,oil and glass— everything is a singular white blur, like a sun of halogen instead of fire.
Had the doctors checked me? My head?
I doubt I was involved in anything. (I doubt I am complicit.) I couldn’t even say if the girls were in the car.
I’m outside the I.C.U.
Isn’t that severe enough? How many of them are in there?
Hospital staff won’t let me in.
(A line cannot be crossed.)
I watch the door swing open and I steal a glance. There’s only a white wall with a white painting of a girl on a bed. I watch the door swing shut.
“I’m their father,” I lied.
“I’m sorry sir, your I.D cannot be verified,” they know.
I feel the cctv studying me so I stare back at it. He must be watching the feed. I want him to know that I know, that I’m expecting videos with names, height, weight, age, condition.
The doctors won’t tell me a thing.
I leave before other authorities arrive.
How many girls made it out of camerama?