Something about a wheel

“Your progress is amazing, Jimmy” the doc said. Well, Jimmy did everything fast; at least he used to. It’d been eighteen months since the accident at the race in Phoenix. Re-learning to walk, to talk, it was going well but Jimmy wasn’t satisfied. “You’ve already come further, faster than all our expectations” the doc often said, but Jimmy needed it go faster. Nothing went fast enough for him any more. His recovery, miraculous to everyone else, was hell in slow motion to Jimmy. As he waited for the door to open to the outside world, his thoughts again returned to that hot August day; most of the memories were as ghosts in a fog, hazy, without form. Seeing the bent and twisted remains of his car did little but stir the memories to contrails in his mind. Finally outside, with a brisk wind biting at his ears, Jimmy paused at the sight of the ambulance. His eyes drifted over it, settling on the front wheel. One of his ghosts began taking form, the mist began to fade then re-enveloped the escaping memory.

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