Ashes in My Right Hand

Oliver spent twenty minutes searching for Grace in the fire while I was still trapped inside.

I didn't blame him. Her father had died saving his life.

But when the firefighters finally pulled me out, my right hand was crushed to pulp by a fallen beam. That was the hand that had performed five hundred delicate neurosurgery procedures.

Oliver glanced at it in the hospital, his brow creased. "Grace has a weak heart. She can't take any shock. They can reattach your hand. Just don't cry about the pain in front of her."

Later, the hand was reattached, but all the nerves were dead.