"Please God," she whispered as she wrapped her arms around her belly. Unconsciously, she began to rock back and forth. "Please . . . let him be all right . . . please let him live . . . he didn't deserve what happened last night. He didn't. Whatever punishment you have in store for me for this, I'll take. I shouldn't have been out at that party . . . I shouldn't have been behind the wheel of that car . . . why? Why did this have to happen?"

Trixie knew the answers to her questions.  She knew them very well, just as she knew that she'd have to live with the consequences . . . such as the guilt for injuring her boyfriend.  And the shame.  The shame of not only hurting him but tarnishing the name of the Mach 5 team.  They had always boasted about never driving drunk and she had wrecked that.

'It's true what they say . . . you're lucky if it's a cop that stops you when you're driving drunk . . .'

"Millicent?"

At the sound of her father's voice, Trixie glanced up . . . and their eyes met.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.  They didn't need to.  There was concern and understanding in her father's eyes.  No reprimands . . . as if he could see the torture that she was putting herself through.  Then he held out his arms to her and she found herself clinging to him, tears falling freely down her cheeks as she did so.

"Oh, Daddy," she sobbed, her petite form trembling.  "It's my fault.  It's all my fault."

"Shhhh," he murmured.  "It's going to be all right . . ."

"How?  How is it going to be all right?" Trixie nearly wailed, hugging her father tight.  "I hit my boyfriend last night!  And I don't know how he's doing!"

"I realize this, darling," came the gentle reply.  "I realize it very well.  However, you can't keep beating yourself up over this.  It isn't going to do you, or Speed, any good."

"But . . ."

"No buts," her father interjected firmly.  "Now I realize that you're feeling very guilty over this.  You've made a mistake and now you're paying for it in the worst way possible.  My question is, what are you going to do about what's been done?"

* * *

Cool hands brushed against his fevered skin.  At least, he felt fevered.  Given the amount of pain he was in, despite the painkillers (which never lasted long, it seemed), he was surprised he could even feel those cool hands brushing the hair away from his face.  He had to admit, though, it felt nice to feel that coolness against his skin.  Somehow, it eased the pain.

"Hey, baby . . ."

His mother's voice.  She sounded so tired, as if she hadn't slept in over a day or so.  Why hadn't she slept?  He couldn't recall. He just knew that he wanted to tell her to get some sleep, that he´d be all right but it would have been a lie. He knew that and she knew that.

'What happened anyway?  Why do I ache like this?  Why is it so hard to see my mother's face when I open my eyes?'

Someone had said what had happened to him, why he had a breathing machine hooked to his face.  There were other things poking him as well for whatever had happened but he couldn't really recall.  Not that it would have mattered any at that moment.  Sleep called to him and he felt too weak to protest.

'I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes . . . that's all . . .'

Slowly, his eyelids drooped shut and sweet darkness claimed him.

* * *

"Mr. and Mrs. Racer, please have a seat.  We have some news on your son's condition."