Freedom. It wasn’t just air to me; it was the only thing I craved with my whole being. The only space I could claim as my own.

My brother Liam, golden boy Liam, breathed expectation. He thrived on it. Me? I choked. The family photos plastered on the fridge—Liam beaming with his science fair ribbon, Liam accepting the student of the year award. They were a constant, silent judgment. I was the smudge on the otherwise perfect portrait.

I remember that one time I tried. Tried to be like Liam. He was building a birdhouse, meticulously measuring and sawing, while I, with my usual impulsiveness, was attempting to construct a magnificent (in my mind) fort out of blankets and chairs. Liam, with his patient explanations and gentle corrections, tried to include me and tried to teach me the “right” way to do things. But I grew frustrated; the careful precision felt like a cage. I stormed off, leaving the half-built birdhouse and my own chaotic fort behind.

Buster was Liam’s dog. A scrawny, mud-caked pup with one ear perpetually flopped over. Liam found him abandoned at the pond. He trained Buster, patiently teaching him tricks. Of course, he got all the slobbery and unconditional love. I got ... well, I got the occasional glare when my report card inevitably fell short of the Liam Standard. Like the time Buster, in a fit of puppy enthusiasm, shredded my painstakingly crafted (okay, maybe slightly messy) model airplane. His clumpy paws made short work of the soft wood.

“Why can’t you keep your things organized?” My mom sighed, the disappointment in her voice a sharp sting. Liam, ever the peacemaker, tried to defend me, but it only made things worse. “See? Liam takes care of his things. Why can’t you be more like him?”

Liam made it look so easy: the perfect son. I’d tried. I’d tried to be good, to be worthy, to be ... Liam. And every time, I’d fallen short. Buster, with his goofy grin and perpetually wagging tail, was just another reminder of those failures.

Buster was Leam’s responsibility. So, when Liam left for college, the folks’ eyes landed on me. I instinctively looked away. Another expectation, another performance I was destined to fail. Instead, I escaped. I’d disappear for hours, exploring the abandoned train tracks that snaked through the woods behind our house, the rusty rails a symbol of forgotten journeys and a path to my own freedom.

I remembered one time, Liam, ever the responsible one, had followed me. He always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Hey! Wait up!” he called. His voice was tight with concern as if I would be lost without him.

We climbed into the orange grove. I just wanted to get out of there, to breathe some air that wasn’t thick with his perfectness. Liam, on the other hand, found a new goal. He was obsessing over finding the perfect orange. The biggest and the brightest. His eyes narrowed as he held each orange up to the light, turning it this way and that, searching for some flaws that only he could find. I tried to make him stop but he wouldn’t listen. He was still scrutinizing the oranges when the old groundskeeper showed up. We both got grounded for the oranges we did not even eat.

Of course, it was my fault. They never saw Liam’s part in it. Even my attempts at rebellion were somehow twisted into another Liam-centric narrative.

My parents had a busy schedule. They decided to find a new home for Buster. Liam did not like the idea of giving up Buster.

“You can’t abandon him,” Liam’s voice cracked over the phone. “He’s family, you know? You even like playing with him.”

I felt a twinge of something uncomfortable. It wasn’t just the memory of my decimated sneakers.

Liam’s tactics were predictable. The parade of Buster photos—Buster in a sweater vest, Buster in a sombrero, Buster as a pirate. His one floppy ear is always peeking out. Each one was a carefully curated snapshot of Liam’s perfect life, a stark contrast to my own messy, unpredictable existence.

Cute? Please. I saw the effort, the performance. I couldn’t even be bothered to iron my own shirts, let alone dress a dog in ridiculous outfits.

Liam’s weekend visit was a masterclass in guilt-tripping. Kneeling by Buster, stroking his soft fur, the picture of heartbroken devotion. “You can’t just leave him,” he whispered, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air. “He’s like our brother ... He looks at you as...” He trailed off, the martyr act perfected.

Buster nudged my hand with his wet nose. I flinched. That dog represented everything I wasn’t and everything I couldn’t be.

“I have my own life to deal with,” I mumbled, avoiding Liam’s wounded gaze. My life was a chaotic scramble for some semblance of identity, some space where I wasn’t being measured against Liam’s yardstick. “Why should I be the one stuck with him?”

Liam’s eyes mirrored my own buried fear—the fear of inadequacy, the fear of failing yet again. I looked away. Easier to bury it than face it.

“Besides,” I added, a lame attempt at a joke, “you’ve seen what he does to ... footwear.” Anything to deflect, anything to avoid the real issue.

That was the turning point. The chasm widened. Liam, with his perfect empathy, couldn’t understand. He couldn’t understand the constant pressure, the feeling of always being second best.

Liam had to put Buster up for adoption. He was not happy with the family that took Buster in. They seemed more interested in showing him off than giving him the love he deserved. Liam had little choice in the matter. He looked so defeated.

A part of me almost felt sorry for him as I watched him take Buster away for the last time. Buster whined, while his sad puppy eyes bored into me. Tears? Nah, something got in my eyes.

Months later, Liam came back, a storm cloud of grief. I found him standing by the empty doghouse. “You’re awful for leaving him!” he yelled, his voice raw. “Buster was family! How could you just walk away?”

I wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. What could I say? That I was tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of being the shadow to his sun?

“He’s ... gone,” Liam choked out.

“Gone?” A cold dread settled in my stomach.

Liam shook his head. “They ... said it was quick.”

“Quick?” My heart pounded. “What happened?”

Liam wouldn’t look at me. “Why would you care now?” he spat.

I saw the way his shoulders shook. He was broken.

The image of Buster, alone and afraid, flashed through my mind. For a moment, I saw myself in Buster’s place. It was a haunting premonition of the loneliness I would later come to know.

I later learned about the hushed whispers. Buster was mistreated in his new home. The gossip was that he had become aggressive. There were conflicting stories. Some said he’d cower in the corner, while others claimed he’d lashed out at the neighborhood children. Then ... it happened. They said he snapped.

Snapped? Buster? I didn’t believe it. He was goofy and clumsy, but he had never hurt anyone. The details ... they were vague. Something about an incident at the park. They called it “A Mercy.” They said it was for the best.

A mercy for whom? Maybe it was for Buster.

It felt like something inside me died along with Buster. A fragile piece I hadn’t even known existed. Maybe it was the part that was capable of ... connection. A new fear took root, colder and sharper than any I’d felt before: the fear of being incapable of love. I was destined to hurt, to abandon, to break. Just like I broke Buster. Just like I broke Liam. Just like I always broke everything I touched.

I was the black sheep, while Liam was the golden boy. It was unbearable to see the look in my parents’ eyes since Liam had moved out for college. While they did not say it out loud, their eyes spoke volumes of disappointment. I was counting my days until I could move out.

My college term became my ticket to freedom. “You only live once!” I shouted to anyone who’d listen. I was no slacker, though. “Work hard, party harder!” became my mantra. I chased thrills like they were going out of style.

Drugs, wild parties, crazy road trips—I dabbled in it all. I even joined a cult for a while. Chants and itchy robes weren’t my vibe, and when they said no pizza? Hard pass. “Pizza is life!” I declared, tossing off my robe at a toga party—which, by the way, I repurposed into a rather stylish tunic. Life’s too short for uncomfortable clothes, right?

One road trip stands out. Burning Man. What a disaster. We ran out of gas in the Nevada desert. Got attacked by bees (tie-dye shirts were a bad idea), and I even set my hair on fire roasting marshmallows. It was supposed to be epic. A spiritual awakening. Instead, it was just ... hot. And itchy. And now my scalp is tingling. Crazy memories, right?

Then there was Everest. I made it to base camp, then realized I was woefully unprepared. Hawaiian shirts and my ukulele instead of proper gear. “If I get stuck, I can just sing to the Sherpas!” I’d reasoned.

They were not amused. I was kicked out right at the entrance. Needing an airlift from the base camp was humiliating. Mom wasn’t happy, and Dad simply shook his head. I pretended not to care, but deep down, it stung.

I was searching for a connection but building walls instead. Pushing away the love that was right there, terrified of ... what? Being tied down? Being vulnerable?

Maybe it’s the feeling of being trapped, like with Buster. The responsibility, the expectation ... it’s suffocation.

Climbing cliffs in the Andes was another bright idea. Turns out, I’m terrible at climbing. Surprise, surprise. I fell. My llama-shaped stress ball didn’t bring me any luck. I hit a condor with it, and it tried to steal my granola bar. Even the birds hate me. Another failure. Another mess.

A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Something felt ... off. Like I was on the edge of something. Something bad.

When I got back to civilization, a voicemail was waiting for me. It was from Liam.

“Mom and Dad are in the hospital,” he said, his voice tight. “They got sick. No one saw it coming. I’m here, but ... it’s not good.”

Sick? Mom and Dad? It hadn’t even crossed my mind they might get old, get sick. I’d boxed them away, labeled them ‘Family,’ a place I rarely visited.

Mom was gone even before I could start my return journey. By the time I got home, Dad was gone too. Liam was there. His eyes were red, but he didn’t cry. He just looked at me. The look in his eyes was haunting. There was no anger or sadness in them. He only had pity for me.

“They’re both gone,” he said quietly. “Mom first, then Dad. He ... he just lost his will to live, I think.”

It wasn’t just guilt I felt. It was worse. I’d squandered my chance to say goodbye. Liam had been there. He’d held their hands, comforted them, and said the things I should have said. He was the obedient son. The son I should have been. And I was off chasing condors.

The house felt alien. Liam moved through it like a ghost, picking up Mom’s teacup and touching Dad’s armchair. Those little things ... so precious. And I was never here to notice. He was grieving. I didn’t know how to grieve with him. We were brothers, but we were worlds apart.

Liam sat on the worn sofa, the same one Dad always sat on, clutching a framed photo of Mom and Dad. In the photo, Buster was curled at their feet, his head resting on Dad’s lap. Liam gently stroked the faded, slightly shrunken sweater he was wearing. Then I saw it. A small, embroidered paw print near the cuff. Buster.

Oh God. A wave of nausea washed over me. I remember Mom knitting that set of sweaters. She had made one for everyone, including Buster.

Liam looked at me, his eyes filled with a quiet sadness. “Mom and Dad regretted sending Buster away. They missed him.”

I just blinked at him. Did they? I never noticed.

“They loved you more ... than Buster, than their own peace of mind, than anything.” He spat in anger.

His words burned like a mark on my soul. Really? I could not deny his words.

They loved you more, echoed in my mind. Not as an accusation, but as a statement of fact. A stark reminder of the love I had rejected, the connection I had broken. And now ... it’s gone.

There was nothing more to be said between us. I did not see Liam for a couple of years after the funeral.

Life was great. I craved new experiences. There was nothing too taboo for me that I wouldn’t do. I was The Guy when it came to enjoying life to the fullest. Then, it all came crashing down on me when I least expected it.

She called me one day and said, “I’m pregnant.” At first, I was puzzled. Jessica. The quiet girl from the school project. Karaoke. Nachos. That night. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, she was telling me she was keeping the baby. Another responsibility. Another tie.

My first instinct was to run, but ... something was different this time. She made it clear she was just informing me. No strings attached, or so I told myself.

As she went through her pregnancy, the thought of a DNA test nagged at me. I needed to be sure, but when I held my baby girl for the first time, all my doubts vanished. She was so tiny, so perfect. And she had my nose. This tiny human, a part of me, a part of Jessica. She needed me. And for the first time, I didn’t run.

Not physically, anyway.

“I want you to be part of her life,” Jessica said, her eyes hopeful. “Only if you’re ready.”

So, for the first time, I made a choice. I married her. I became a husband and a father. It was a small ceremony with close friends and family. As I stood at the altar, holding Millie, a tiny bundle in Jessica’s arms, a mix of emotions swirled inside me. Joy, wonder ... and a flicker of fear. The fear of being trapped. The fear of failing. The fear of becoming a father.

After all, I had only one role model to look at: my own father. He was always there, always responsible, always ... distant. I remember watching him sometimes, staring out the window, a look of ... what? Resignation? Was that my future? A life of quiet obligation, devoid of real connection? He never seemed truly happy. Just ... present.

I looked at Jessica, radiant with happiness, and knew I had to try. For Millie, for Jessica ... and maybe, just maybe, for myself. But a small voice whispered, Is this really what I want? Or will this be just an obligation for me? Just like my dad?

Liam came to the wedding. I saw tears streaming down his face. His eyes ... they held no forgiveness. Only a deep, echoing sadness. He spoke only to Jessica and spent the rest of his time playing with Millie. He was so gentle with her. As he left, I saw something in his eyes. Pain. His wife ... she’d passed away. I hadn’t even been there.

I’d been too busy chasing ... what? The same emptiness I’m running from now? I remember when Emily died. Liam was a mess. I should have been there for him, but I was too wrapped up in ... myself. I doubt if he even needed me, though.

The realization hit me hard. I wanted to comfort him, to be there for him, but ... I couldn’t. I didn’t know how. I’d built these walls, brick by painful brick, just like Dad. Liam never gave me a chance to make up my mind. He was gone as soon as the ceremony ended.

What did I do? I played the role of the perfect husband and the perfect father. I did everything by the book, but it felt empty. Just a role. No real love. Just obligations. Was I fooling anyone? Least of all myself? Millie’s giggle was a lifeline. It could make even a frozen pizza taste gourmet.

Millie would tug on my sleeve, asking me to read her a story. I’d just point to Jessica, saying, “Mommy’s better at that.” I’d answer Jessica’s questions with short, perfunctory replies. At dinner, I focused more on my phone than on her words. Even when we were alone, I’d find excuses to be in my study. Anything to avoid the quiet intimacy that made me so uncomfortable.

Jessica flourished after the wedding. She finished her law degree and built a successful career. She was so strong, so independent. She became a prominent figure in family law. Ironically, she specialized in divorce cases, but her success rate at reconciliation was remarkably high. How could she advocate for saving families when ours was crumbling?

I supported her and adored Millie. We had happy moments. But the little voice always whispered for freedom. Every night, watching them sleep, I dreamed of running away. My escape fantasy? A hot air balloon drifting away with an endless supply of gummy bears.

The balloon was a symbol of escape. The gummy bears ... I remember Mom giving me a bag of gummy bears when I was little after I scraped my knee. It was the best day ever. No worries, no responsibilities, just the sweet taste of freedom. A time before ... everything.

Jessica felt the distance. She tried. Little notes on my pillow. “Remember our anniversary?” or “Weekend getaway?” One night, I found a note. It was a photo of us, Millie as a newborn, Jessica’s eyes shining with love. Beneath it, she’d written, “I love you. Let’s find our way back to each other.”

My heart clenched. For a moment, I felt ... something. Hope? Love? Then the fear crept in, the fear of losing myself, of being trapped. More notes followed. I put them in my bottom drawer and closed it. Just like I closed myself off from her. I found them later, most of them were still unopened.

One evening, Jessica came to my study. I was “working late.” Avoiding her.

“Can we talk?” she asked, her eyes hopeful.

I mumbled something about being busy. She nodded, her shoulders slumping. I saw the hurt in her eyes. The same hurt I’d seen in Liam’s eyes, in Mom’s eyes ... in Buster’s eyes. I didn’t look up from my screen until I heard the click of the door closing behind her.

Then ... nothing. Just the silence and the weight of what I hadn’t said. What I hadn’t felt.

A few days later, Jessica stood in the doorway of my study, holding a stack of unopened letters. The set of letters was addressed to me. I recognized the script; they were from her mother. Jessica had told me how much she missed her, how she longed for her advice. I had nodded sympathetically, then promptly forgotten. Just like I had forgotten about Buster, about Liam’s pain, about everything that required sustained effort and emotional investment.

Jessica’s mother had written regularly, sharing snippets of her life and offering gentle guidance. In one letter, Jessica had told me, her mother had described a simple recipe for Jessica’s favorite childhood dish, a reminder of home and comfort. Another letter contained a story about Jessica’s grandmother, a woman Jessica had never met but felt a deep connection to.

In the most recent letter, Jessica’s mother had written about her own fears of growing old. She was anxious about her health and prayed for Jessica’s happiness. She’d expressed how proud she was of Jessica and me.

Proud of me? What did she see that I didn’t? Maybe she saw the potential for the man I could be if I could just ... let go.

Jessica had shown me that letter, her eyes shining with love and admiration. I’d mumbled something about how nice it was and promptly forgotten all about it.

Why was I like this? Was it Dad’s distance? He was always there, physically present, but emotionally absent. I remember once, I’d built this amazing Lego castle, and I was so excited to show him. He just glanced at it and said, “That’s nice,” then went back to his newspaper.

He didn’t ask me about the drawbridge I’d painstakingly designed or the secret passageways I’d hidden within the walls. He just went back to his newspaper. It was like I wasn’t even there. He never really saw me. Did I learn that from him? To be present, but not really there? Was I doomed to repeat his patterns?

One evening, Jessica saw me staring out the window. I was lost in my thoughts. “You’re not happy, are you?” she asked. The sadness in her voice mirrored my own.

I turned and forced a smile. “Of course I am! This is what I wanted.” But the lie sounded hollow, even to my own ears.

She let out a heavy sigh. “We can’t run this charade anymore,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “We’re pretending everything is fine, but it’s not. We’re lying to ourselves, and we’re lying to Millie. She sees it, you know. She sees the distance between us. She sees that we don’t love each other anymore.”

Honest? That was the scariest thing of all. Facing the truth of what I was, what I had done. My stomach clenched. My face burned. I felt a sudden urge to disappear. I saw Jessica’s face, etched with a weariness that mirrored my own. She deserved better. She deserved someone who could give her the love and attention she craved. Someone who wasn’t constantly running away from his own demons.

Eventually, we lived together but felt like strangers. We stayed together for Millie’s sake, trying to give her a normal childhood.

Jessica focused on her career. By the time Millie had turned ten, she had already reached a partner position in a top law firm in the city. She channeled all her disappointments into her work. I missed her attempts to strike up the conversation.

I loved my daughter deeply, but I worried I’d messed her up already. She tended to be tough and headstrong. She could see her mom’s quiet pain, and I think she blamed me for it.

Millie started to have a serious dislike for men, except for her Uncle Jerry. He was the fun uncle who always brought treats and horrible jokes. I knew I needed to do something, but I couldn’t stand the thought of making everything worse. So, I waited and avoided discussing things. Especially when she began karate classes. She was a natural. Strong. Independent. Just like her mother.

Millie, in her own way, was also searching for something. She became a tomboy, pushing away anything traditionally feminine. It was as if she was trying to prove something, trying to define herself in opposition to the hurt I had caused her mother. She was trying to be strong, to protect herself. Just like I was trying to protect myself by pushing everyone away. She even confided in Jerry once, asking him, “Do you think ... do you think I’m ... okay?”

Jerry, bless his heart, just ruffled her hair and said, “Millie-pad, you’re strong and smart. You’ve got a killer roundhouse kick. Just be yourself, and you will make a bunch of friends in no time.”

Millie wasn’t convinced, though. She saw the way her mother looked at me. The way the light had gone out of her eyes. She saw the same thing I saw in Dad’s eyes sometimes. Resignation. She vowed never to be that vulnerable with anyone in her life.

One day, Millie looked at me with her big eyes and asked, “Why don’t you play with me? Don’t you like me?” She was holding up a drawing, a vibrant picture of a family—a mom, a daughter, and a stick figure that I assumed was supposed to be me, standing apart from the others.

My heart clenched. I wanted to reach out to her and pull her into a hug. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, but the words wouldn’t come. My heart was closed off. Just the way it was closed off for Buster and for Liam.

I was so afraid of hurting her, of disappointing her. Just like I’d disappointed everyone else I’d ever cared about. Just like I’d disappointed ... myself. I could not differentiate between attachment and shackles. Was I even good enough to be her father?

“Of course I do!” I said, ruffling her hair. “I love you!”

My heart wasn’t there. I felt like I was faking it. I saw a flicker of hurt in her eyes. A shadow of the same disappointment I had seen in my parent’s eyes. Millie turned away, and I heard her whisper, “I wish you did.”

When Millie turned eighteen, I finally broke the news. I was leaving. Jessica didn’t even blink. I’d already left her, years ago.

Millie stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. A pose she had copied from Jessica during her courtroom cross-examinations. “You’re leaving?” she asked flatly, her voice echoing the emptiness I felt inside. I nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

They were so much like Jessica’s. A shiver ran down my spine. She didn’t cry or yell. She just gave me that look—a look of such deep, bone-chilling disappointment that it was worse than any screaming match. “Just like you left Mom,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. As if the knife wasn’t twisted deep enough, she added, “Just like you left me at my school play.”

A coldness settled over me, a sadness that gave me a bone-deep chill. My hands felt clammy. I remembered the school play. Millie was a tiny fairy, wings shimmering, lines memorized perfectly. I’d promised I’d be there in the front row. But ... something came up. Work, I told myself. The truth was, I’d been at a bar, celebrating a “win” at work.

I’d called Jessica later, full of breezy apologies. She’d been quiet. Millie hadn’t spoken to me for a week. I was repeating the same damn pattern with Millie. She was the latest addition to the growing list: Buster, my parents, Liam, Jessica ... myself. Was this my legacy? A trail of broken connections?

Millie’s rebellion was quiet at first, a subtle shift in her demeanor. She started wearing all black, ripped jeans, and heavy boots. She wanted piercings and tattoos. A dragon, she’d said, curling around her arm, breathing fire. The image of that dragon, a fierce protector, made something twist inside me. Jessica put her foot down. I could see the worry in Jessica’s eyes, the fear that Millie was pushing herself too far, too fast. A fear I understood all too well.

Millie began skipping classes, a small act of defiance that quickly snowballed. Jessica called me one evening, her voice tight with worry and frustration. “Millie’s been arrested,” she said. “Shoplifting. Just ... a stupid, attention-seeking thing. I’m at the police station now.” I mumbled something about it being a phase, but the image Jessica sent me from her phone haunted me.

Millie’s mugshot, that look in her eyes ... so lost, so angry at the world around her. Just like I felt sometimes. Just like what I saw in Liam’s eyes after Emily died. It was a mirror reflecting my own worst self.

Then there was Alex. He was at the police station too. Some legal trouble, Jessica vaguely explained. An orphan with a troubled past at a youth detention center. He was also an honor student with a scholarship at Millie’s College. They bonded over their shared status as social outcasts and their shared ... anger.

Alex had this calming presence about him, this quiet intensity that seemed to draw Millie out of her shell. He was good for her, Jessica said. He gave her a safe space to just be. I saw it too. She actually started pulling herself together at his insistence. It grated on me, this outsider, this... Alex, having such a profound impact on my daughter. He was always there, offering advice, support, and a shoulder to lean on. He was everything I wasn’t, and I resented him for it.

Alex also managed to mend some of the damage between Millie and Jessica. He encouraged Millie to talk to her mom, really talk. He helped Jessica understand Millie’s anger and hurt. He had insights that I had completely missed in my emotional blindness. “Millie needs to know you’re listening,” I overheard him tell Jessica one day. “She needs to know you believe in her.” He was right. I had never really listened. Not to Jessica, not to Millie, not even to myself. I was too busy protecting myself from ... what? Vulnerability? Intimacy?

Jessica and Millie were getting closer and closer. Not just mother and daughter, but more like best buddies and confidantes. Jessica came to Millie with her frustrations, her dreams, the things she couldn’t share with me. Millie saw the pain in Jessica’s heart; the love never really returned. They became each other’s rocks. And I was on the outside, looking in.

Millie, bless her heart, even attempted to get me on board. She suggested a family vacation, a last-ditch attempt to find common ground between me and Jessica.

We went to Paris. Paris! The city of lights, love ... and utter, soul-crushing indifference, as far as Jessica and I were concerned. We walked along the Seine. Millie and Jessica chatted away, sharing inside jokes and laughing about things I didn’t even get. I tried to join in, but my words felt clumsy and forced.

I saw a flicker of the old Jessica in her smile as she looked at Millie. A warmth that wasn’t directed at me anymore. A reminder of the connection I’d thrown away. I remember when we first came to Paris. Jessica was so happy, so full of life. I was ... distracted. Thinking about work, about my “freedom.” I was never truly present. I was already running away, even then. Here we were again, years later, and the chasm between us was wider than the Seine.

Needless to say, the last vacation together did not help the inevitable.

Alex got into legal trouble because of Millie’s delinquent friends. They’d cornered him in the alley, fueled by cheap beer and resentment. Millie had left them weeks prior, and they blamed Alex. They taunted him, shoved him, and tried to provoke a fight. Alex defended himself, perhaps a little too well. One leading the charge ended up in a hospital with cracked ribs and a dislocated arm.