Velocity of Impact

Velocity of Impact:8-11-2026; Riley Chambers

The day started like every other day. The sun was rising, and the cat was lying at my feet, purring. The creaking of my bedroom door awoke me from my nightly slumber.

“Goooooodddd Moooorrrrrniiinnng,” my dad said to me, apparently quoting one of his favorite movies.

But I had no idea. I just stayed still, pulling the covers over my face to pretend to be asleep. I was waiting for that perfect moment when he bent down to shake my leg. The second he tried to wake me, I would jump and yell, “BOOOO!”

He would grab his chest. “OH MY GOODNESS, you scared me!” he’d say. I knew deep down that I really didn’t scare him, but it always put a smile on both of our faces.

“It’s time to wake up,” my dad said. “This is the last day of school this week. Then you can relax. I know we usually talk about what you want for breakfast before bedtime. Since you got to bed a little later than usual, we didn’t talk about it. Anything sound good?”

I rolled my eyes, sinking deeper into my pillow. “Ugh, I don’t know, Dad, you decide. I just want to go back to sleep.”

“Oh, I’m right there with you, son. I would love to as well,” he replied. “But sleep doesn’t pay the bills.”

We went downstairs so I could eat before starting the day. At the time, I didn’t really think about everything Dad did just to get my morning moving. He started rambling off a list of options to see what sounded good to me. Even though I had told him "you decide," he still wanted me to choose something I would actually enjoy.

After each food he named, a flat "No" was my response.

“You need to pick something,” he said, and I could hear his breathing get heavier through his nose. “I need you to pick something. I have more things to do before I take you to school.”

“You want some cereal? That would be the quickest.”

“FINE,” I snapped.

He quickly poured me a bowl of cereal with milk, set it on the table, and immediately turned around to try to complete his tasks.

“Can I have some more milk in my bowl?” I called out, just as he was about to do something else.

Without hesitation, he went back to the refrigerator, got the milk, and poured a little more into my bowl. After returning the carton, he went right back to his own morning rush.

As I was eating, Dad got my backpack from the closet and brought it to the kitchen. He grabbed my lunchbox and proceeded to make my lunch. Knowing how much I loved pizza, he asked if that was fine.

“Uh, yeah,” I mumbled.

He packed the lunch, checked my bag to make sure it was ready for the day, and filled my water bottle. He placed the backpack by the front door so it would not be forgotten. Then he ran upstairs, grabbed the clothes I was going to wear, and came back down.

“Almost done?” he asked.

“Can I have a little more?” I answered, pointing to the empty bowl.

He stopped, took a breath, and went to the pantry to get the box. He poured me a little more, then kept moving. Next, he started tying up the trash bags, as it was trash day and the truck sometimes came early. As he came back inside from taking the trash can to the curb, he noticed that I wasn’t eating anymore.

“Done?” he asked.

“Yes, I can’t eat another bite,” I replied.

He grabbed my bowl and looked at the clock. “Okay, I’ll give you five minutes to let it settle, then we need to hustle and go.”

As the time kept ticking, I dragged a blanket onto the couch, trying to get as comfortable as possible for those five minutes.

Then Dad said, “Okay, one more minute.”

“What? Seriously?” I shot back.

“Son, just because you slow down doesn’t mean time does.”

“I know,” I said, my voice completely deflated.

He grabbed the remote control and clicked the television off. I got up to go through the motions of getting ready—which, looking back, wasn’t much effort at all. After brushing my teeth, I gave Mom a hug, told her I loved her, and wished her a good day. Dad and I walked out the front door.

I asked him if I could grab the light jacket I kept in my backpack. Sometimes it got cold in class, so it paid to be prepared.

“Of course,” he replied. He grabbed my bag, and we headed to the car.

Usually on the way to school, Dad and I would talk about random things, but they would always be something I could learn from. Sometimes it was the type of clouds in the sky, or the types of fish we caught when we went fishing. Our conversations usually continued until we reached the front of the school.

When we arrived, we stopped and carried out our daily ritual. I gave Dad a huge hug, and then we did our secret handshake. After that, I told him I loved him and to have a good day. He stayed in that exact spot, watching, until I was safely inside the building.

Once inside, I headed upstairs to my classroom. The day went just like any other day—just a full day of learning with nothing out of the ordinary. Or, as Dad would sometimes say, it was “nothing to write home about.”

Every day after the school bell rang, I went to an after-school program at the school. I would usually be there for about an hour and a half before Dad came to pick me up.

As the minutes ticked by, however, there was no sign of my dad, or my mom. Even though there was no clock in the gym or outside, I knew it was much later than usual. I asked the after-school teachers if they had heard anything from them. They said no, but they assured me they were just running late and that everything was okay.

If they haven't heard anything, how can they know? I thought to myself.

So, I sat down outside at one of the picnic tables and waited.

As more time passed, I heard my name crackle over the teacher’s walkie-talkie. Yes, I thought.

I ran inside, grabbed my backpack, and hurried toward the exit. I tried to look through the glass as I neared the door, because Dad was always standing right there, waving to me with a smile on his face.

But this time, it wasn’t Dad. It wasn’t Mom, either.

It was my sister. When the door was opened, I noticed her eyes were completely bloodshot.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my heart dropping. “Where’s Dad?”

“We’ll talk in the car,” she whispered, her voice choking.

As I got in the car, I buckled up, and we pulled away from the school.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“There was an accident,” she replied, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Dad is in the hospital.”

“What? What kind of accident? Where’s Mom?”

“Mom is fine. She’s at Dad’s bedside,” she said, tears finally spilling over. “But it’s not good.”

“What happened?” I asked, holding back tears.

“He had to run to the office downtown this morning,” she said, her voice shaking. “On his way home... a car hit him on the highway. It happened so fast. They said he didn't even have time to react.”

As we pulled into the hospital parking lot next to the ER, I unbuckled and reached for the door handle, but my sister yelled, “WAIT!”

“You can’t just run in there. You have to prepare yourself,” she said, hiding her face in her hands. “He’s bad—he’s real bad. They have him in a medical coma right now.”

“What’s that?” I asked, my chest tightening.

“They put him to sleep with medicine. Because the pain and the damage... it's too bad.”

As we walked into the waiting room, the heavy double doors to the emergency room were swinging shut. For a split second, I saw my mom through the narrowing crack. Our eyes locked, and I let out the loudest scream: “MOM!!!”

I lunged forward to force the doors open myself, but my mom pushed them open from the other side. She grabbed my sister and me, squeezing us into the tightest, most desperate hug she had ever given us.

“You can’t go back there right now,” she wept, holding my head against her shoulder. “You’re not old enough. They won’t let you.”

I buried my face in her shirt, the cold air of the hospital hallway giving me a burning sensation on my tear-soaked face. I reached down and gripped the strap of my backpack, feeling the outline of the light jacket my dad had carried out to the car for me just hours before. I closed his eyes, desperately wishing I could slow down the clock, realizing too late that time never slows down for anyone.