Weeks later, the hospital smelled like sterilized remorse.
Jack stood outside Lana and Kyle's shared room, clipboard in hand. Charts didn't lie.
Cognitive damage: permanent.
Speech patterns disrupted. Memory fragmented. Emotions dulled.
Lana stared out the window all day. Kyle built paper cranes, one after another, never finishing them.
Jack signed the guardianship papers in silence.
The social worker said, “You can decline."
“I won't."
“You didn't cause this."
He didn't respond.
Because he had.
Not directly. But with every choice, every step. Every time he let mercy outweigh judgment.
When he returned home, his badge lay on the table—still, heavy, wrong.
He stared at it a long time.
Then slid it into an envelope and mailed it to Internal Affairs.
The next day, a postcard ar
