Carrie and Nick were on their first road trip with their new Harley. Nick, who had no motorcycle riding experience prior to the Harley purchase, needed to take a rider safety course to get a cycle endorsement on his driver’s license. What they don’t tell you at those safety courses is that it takes years of practice to get a sense of comfort while riding. Even more, that one is never entirely safe while riding a motorcycle in light of the idiots out there texting while driving their cars.
With a month of riding under his belt, Nick felt confident on riding up a mountain road with Carrie as a passenger. They got 10 miles from home when a dick in a monster truck passed them on the highway and clipped the front fender of the bike as he whipped in front of them. Nick and Carrie were airborne, where Carrie hurtled into a brick retaining fence and Nick landed in the passing lane. Carrie lost both of her hands and Nick lost his life.
Six months later, Carrie is approaching discharge from the physical rehabilitation hospital. She is leaving with a list of instructions and daily homework. The physical therapists who have become Carrie’s godsends surround her for a group hug. She feels their healing energy, which gives her courage to walk out of the doors.
Carrie has been fitted with prosthetic hands, and her vehicle has been fitted with equipment to accommodate her prosthetics. Her best friend, Mary Jo, rides beside her for encouragement and to “take the wheel” if necessary, via a passenger seat steering wheel that can be engaged. The ride home is uneventful.
The cats swirl around Carrie’s ankles as she walks into her parents’ home. She’ll be staying with them for a couple of weeks. That night, as Carrie lays down in her old bedroom, kept intact for her all of these years, she gives thanks for being alive. Then she has a conversation with her dear, sweet Nick.