Owen’s back was still extremely sore, despite the medication (his bespectacled, ginger-bearded physician, Dr. Behrn, said he was lucky to walk away with only a bit tongue and a bruised tailbone, but he also gave Owen kudos for wearing a helmet).
Which reminded him.
His helmet.
His poor, poor helmet.
It sat now on the nightstand beside his bed, damaged goods that it was.
Sure, he could fill the crack with something, but his parents already said there was no way he was going to be riding for a while, like, maybe not until he was eighteen, let alone wear that helmet again when he did.
They would have thrown it away if he hadn’t begged them to let him keep it in his room as a decoration.
It wasn’t just his baby.
It was a symbol of Rocket Man and all that he was.
Owen still couldn’t fu
