We met on the white line in the middle of Bear Mountain Parkway in up-state New York. There had been an accident. The last thing I remembered was the mountain about to crash through the windshield, and a deep clear voice saying "Be still, it will be like sleep." I closed my eyes, and like a deflating helium balloon, let the air seep out of my lungs. When I opened my eyes the white line was turning red from the blood seeping from my head; my legs and back were lead. Boots that belonged to voices that were coming from above my head kept murmuring, "She'll never walk again, her legs are in...