Chapter 3 - The Highway BelowThe interstate collision looked worse on television than it had from above.

News footage showed the jackknifed semi, stopped cars, flashing lights, and debris.

My shattered prosthetic sat inside an evidence container.

I hated seeing it.

Not because it was expensive.

Because that leg had become part of how I moved through the world.

I had spent almost two years learning to trust it.

Then Trent held it like a toy.

Dr. Nina Patel checked the part of my leg that remained and confirmed there was no serious new injury requiring surgery.

That should have relieved me.

Instead I stared at the empty space beneath my knee.

“When can I get a replacement?”

“That's between you and your prosthetist, insurance, and probably lawyers now.”

I groaned.

“Great.”

My mother asked:

“Can he use his older prosthesis?”

“Yes, assuming fit remains acceptable.”

I hated the older one.

It was heavier.

Less responsive.

But it meant independence.

That mattered.

Trooper Ruiz returned later with preliminary crash information.

The semi driver, Marcus Hale, had seen the prosthetic fall into his lane.

He braked hard and turned enough to avoid striking it directly with his front wheels.

A car behind him clipped the divider.

Another rear-ended at low speed.

Several people had minor injuries.

Nobody was killed.

I closed my eyes.

The relief was overwhelming.

Trent had joked that dropping my leg could cause a pileup.

Then did it anyway.

That sentence was now on Greg's video.

Because Greg had recorded more than Trent realized.

Trooper Ruiz obtained the phone through proper legal process after Greg's parents and attorney became involved.

The video showed nearly everything.

The mockery.

The removal.

The threat.

The drop.

Then Trent grabbing me afterward and telling me to claim it was an accident.

Greg had not stopped recording.

“Why?” I asked.

Ruiz said:

“He says he panicked.”

“That's not an answer.”

“No.”

She paused.

“He also says Trent had been telling him for months that nothing would happen because his father would fix it.”

My mother looked at the wall.

Not surprised.

Ruiz continued:

“Greg is cooperating.”

“What about Trent?”

“Lawyered up.”

Of course.

There was nothing wrong with that.

Everyone had rights.

Even people caught clearly on video.

My mother reminded me of that when I made a sarcastic comment.

“Due process isn't a reward for good people,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then act like you know.”

Colonel Mom.

Always available.

Trooper Ruiz then asked whether I wanted to make a formal complaint.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

A year earlier I might have worried about being dramatic.

About ruining someone's future.

About whether ableist harassment counted as serious enough.

The overpass cured me of that.

I gave the statement.

Every incident I remembered.

Every nickname.

Every message.

Every time Trent blocked my path or kicked my crutch during the months when I still used one occasionally.

No exaggeration.

No additions.

Just facts.

Then Ruiz asked something unexpected.

“Did Trent ever mention his father's company?”

I thought.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“What did he say?”

I closed my eyes.

We had been outside the student union.

Trent walked past and said:

“Hope your mom enjoys playing investigator.”

At the time I thought he meant my disability complaint.

Now I wasn't sure.

My mother looked at me.

“You never told me.”

“I didn't know it mattered.”

“What exactly did he say?”

I repeated it.

She wrote it down herself.

Ruiz asked:

“Could Trent know about the contract audit from public information?”

Rebecca shook her head.

“Not specific personnel assignments.”

“Could his father know?”

“Yes.”

“Could his father discuss it with him?”

“My review is not classified. But certain audit details are procurement-sensitive.”

That was careful.

My mother's career depended on being careful.

Ruiz asked:

“Are you going to remain involved in the Calder contract?”

Rebecca answered immediately.

“No.”

I turned.

“What?”

“I will disclose the conflict and request recusal from any discretionary decision involving Calder Defense.”

“You didn't do anything.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“But if Trent did this because—”

“Especially if Trent did this because of me.”

Her voice remained calm.

“The government investigation cannot become vulnerable to claims that I used my authority against a contractor after a personal incident involving his family.”

I hated that she had to step away.

Then understood why she did.

Integrity did not mean insisting you were unbiased.

Sometimes it meant creating distance so nobody had to rely on your claim.

That lesson became important later.

That evening, a hospital administrator entered.

“There is a Mr. Wade Calder asking to see Liam.”

My mother stood.

“No.”

I surprised her.

“I want to hear what he says.”

“Liam.”

“With Ruiz here.”

Trooper Ruiz considered.

“His attorney is downstairs.”

“Fine.”

My mother looked unhappy.

But she respected my choice.

Ten minutes later Wade Calder entered.

Tall.

Silver hair.

Expensive coat.

Trent looked like him around the eyes.

Wade looked at my missing prosthetic.

Then at me.

“I am deeply sorry.”

I said nothing.

“My son made an unforgivable mistake.”

Mistake.

Interesting word.

Wade continued:

“I will personally cover your replacement prosthetic, medical costs, transportation—anything you need.”

My mother watched silently.

I asked:

“What do you want?”

He looked offended.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here before your son has even given police a statement?”

His expression changed.

Barely.

I continued:

“And why did Trent know my mother was investigating your company?”

The room went completely still.

Wade looked at Rebecca.

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Then at me.

He finally understood this would not be solved with a check.