This is what we remember being told: The twelve year old boy who crashed through the windshield of our car was alive. Because he's underage, that's all that could be disclosed.

Krystal, as it turns out, was not at the hospital. She died on the Turnpike. There was nothing more to do than to go home, and face all that came next:

Talking to reporters about the story of such a bizarre accident that spread from local reports to sensational tabloids, and magazines and viral news websites in numerous languages.

Collecting our belongings from the totaled car. Jumper cables. Flashlight. The emergency and first aid kit we'd gotten so we'd be safe on the road. Her handbag, with her wallet and items inside.

Gathering photos, each a memory of who she was and who she'd become. There was one of Krystal reflected in the bedroom mirror, from our honeymoon phase, one where we vacationed on Aquas and Falco took a picture of her getting drunk off of her first mixed drink. There were several taken at her graduation, and she looked absolutely beautiful in her cap and gown. I was so proud of her.

There was one one where she was on Kew, volunteering at a domestic violence shelter where she decided she wanted to pursue a career working with mental health.

"It's never too late for someone to seek help to improve their mental well-being,"

Krystal once said in her application to Hargrove University School of Psychology,

"It's never too late to seek healing, and many people, especially our veterans who feel they are too far gone…They need to know that people still love them, and they can love themselves..."

So much life in her twenty-nine years, and somehow her end could still be reduced to a six-page crash report, sent to me by the Corneria City Highway Patrol about four weeks after her death. To categorize the collision, the highway trooper chose from twenty brief descriptions. He chose "other."

According to a diagram, the boy was facing south when he jumped, the same direction we were heading when our car emerged from beneath the overpass. He fell just under twenty feet. The whole physics lesson behind it - his mass, the velocity of his fall, the way the force was distributed and how it left only one of them alive - was not explained. Krystal's death certificate read "blunt force trauma." Peppy had come to call it the "the laws of gravity."

"I see how it happened," Peppy said.

I told him: "I try not to."

On the fiwnal page of the report was the name of the boy on the bridge, Rodrigo Duarte, described as "Pedestrian #1."

But after the crash report, I'd stopped hearing from the Corneria City Highway Patrol. What they knew about the boy only came from old photographs on his mother's private social media pages, a few of which I could see. In one photo, the boy from the bridge, a grey-furred Coyote, brown-eyed, standing beside his similar-looking sisters. In another photo, his tawny-furred mother had her arm wrapped around him; he looked as though he were about to giggle.

I worried about the boy, as Krystal would have.

"Is he getting help right now?" I would ask over and over in the coming months. "Is he getting treatment? Or did they just do the bare minimum, stitch him up, and send him on his way back to school?"

This is what I did not know: When a twelve-year-old boy tries to die, and does, what happens next?