When my shaking ten-year-old begged me to hurry home, I had no idea a nightmare was waiting. I raced inside to find my husband and child cold and motionless on the living room rug. Paramedics rushed in, but the lead officer grabbed my arm, shaking his head. “Ma’am, this wasn’t an accident…”

residual glass shards I had dragged in on my shoes crunched violently beneath my kneecaps, tearing through my scrub pants, but my neurology refused to process the physical trauma.

I lunged for Mark first, grabbing his wrist to locate the radial artery. His flesh was remarkably clammy, possessing the distinct, horrifying chill of wet clay.

Nothing. Not continue reading …