I get the call at 7:30 at night. My best friend, my sister from another mister, has been hit by a car. The only reason I’m sitting next to her now is because the nurse took pity on me. She’s beaten. It hurts to look at her. She has to live. Two weeks have gone by. She’s awake, but can’t speak. She talks to me with her eyes though. She wants to give up. I’ll never let her give up. I watch my best friend grimace in pain as the sadist of a physical therapist makes her relearn how to use her body. I try not to cry but damn it’s hard. I don’t know if I could do it...to have to retrain my body to do everything it’s inherently meant to do. She is a bigger person than I. She’s different. She’s the same, but she’s different. I watch her interact with other patients, her therapists. It just seems like something isn’t clicking. I watch as she rubs her temples. A migraine is going to hit soon and I need to get her home. She looks over at me, pleading me with her eyes. I grab my purse and run for the car. A man cuts us off and I think she just about loses it. She screams through her window, flipping him off and making other drivers either slow down or speed up around us. Like I said...she’s different.