One Sunday morning in March, as I was walking through a crosswalk on the way to buy groceries, a car turned left into me. I screamed as it knocked my hip, hard, and thrust me to the pavement. The driver stopped short and leaped out of the vehicle, shouting what seemed like nonsensical apologies as I cried and swore on the ground: I’m so sorry, I just didn’t see you.
Luckily, my injuries weren’t life-threatening: just a nasty bruise that smeared my hip for about a month and some very real PTSD.
