A sterile white ceiling swam into Taji’s focus, the insistent beep of a monitor a dull throb in his ears. His body ached, a symphony of bruises and a sharp, alien pain where his shirt had been ripped away. Bandages, thick and constricting, bound his chest. The image of the previous night, or was it only hours ago? New Year’s Eve. Bryan, the old .22 revolver they’d stumbled upon, the casual flick of a finger on the trigger. Bryan’s face, wide-eyed with shock, then the deafening blast. It replayed in his mind, a grainy, looping film.

“Blu?” A soft voice broke the silence. A nurse, her face kind, her eyes assessing his state. Taji managed a weak nod. The thought of his lack of insurance, a cold knot in his stomach, made the sterile room feel even more suffocating. He couldn’t go home like this.

Days later, Taji found himself in a therapist’s office, the words feeling like shards of glass on his tongue. The shock of the shooting, Bryan’s panicked flight, the terrifying sense of a gun barrel pointed at him—his mind was a chaotic storm. The therapist, struggling to grasp the tangled threads of his confession, recommended a week at a crisis center.