The Girl on the Car
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 5
Eira Cullen existed in fragments.
In the hospital, her body was mapped before it was understood. X-ray plates slid beneath her without ceremony. Machines hummed, paused, hummed again. Images appeared on screens—white lines, dark gaps, interruptions where continuity should have been.
“Compression fracture.”
“Hairline break.”
“Stabilize first. Surgery can wait.”
Her spine was immobilized immediately. A rigid brace was fitted around her torso, locking her posture into an artificial stillness that overrode whatever position gravity might have chosen next. Her neck remained fixed inside the collar, straps firm, uncompromising, ensuring that nothing shifted, nothing worsened.
One leg was carefully realigned—slowly, deliberately—hands communicating through pressure what words did not need to say. A temporary splint followed, padded and secured, holding bone in place until swelling could subside. The other leg received a lighter brace, its fracture less severe but no less real.
Her arms were checked next. One wrist was stabilized, wrapped, elevated. Fingers were tested for response they did not give. Notes were taken. Times were recorded.
They worked without urgency, but without pause.
Her dress was cut away completely now, replaced with thin fabric and sheets that belonged to no one. Cold disinfectant brushed across skin. Electrodes were repositioned. An IV line was adjusted when her vein shifted slightly beneath tape.
She remained unconscious throughout.
In another room, an orthopedic surgeon studied the images longer than the others. Decisions were made quietly. Screws discussed. Plates considered. Not yet—later. Let her body declare what it would tolerate.
Her fractures were not dramatic enough to justify headlines. Not catastrophic enough to end anything outright. Just severe enough to demand time, restraint, patience.
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