Chapter 1: The Call

My younger male cousin was in a traffic accident while delivering food.

The memory hit me like a sucker punch, even though I’d heard it before: just a kid weaving through potholes for Uber Eats, dodging soccer moms texting at red lights, hoping the next delivery would finally tip him enough for a new pair of sneakers.

The doctor said his injuries were severe—one leg would have to be amputated.

It wasn’t some careful, measured statement either. The ER doc looked my uncle and aunt square in the eye, grim-faced under the fluorescent lights, and told them straight up: "If we don’t operate now, he’ll lose more than just his leg." Even the nurses seemed to hesitate at the doorway, as if what happened next would echo around this hospital for years.

My uncle and aunt, back in our small Ohio town, were terrified and at a complete loss. They kept calling me, asking what to do.

They must have been huddled on the old plaid couch in their faded farmhouse living room, hands trembling as they gripped their iPhones. They called over and over, voices raw and frantic, as if I had some magic answer just because I lived in the city.

Seeing how serious the injuries were, and knowing that any delay could mean losing the other leg too, I told them to listen to the doctor and go ahead with the amputation.

My words felt heavy, like I was signing away more than flesh and bone—maybe a whole future. Still, I remembered the doc’s warning: "If you wait, infection’ll take the rest." So I told them, as calmly as I could, "Do what the doctor says. You have to save him, whatever it takes."

I even signed the consent forms for them.

The hospital had me scan my driver’s license and sign the forms they emailed over. It felt cold and clinical, the hum of hospital machinery in the background as I hit ‘Send.’ The nurse said, "Thank you, Mr. Cavanaugh." My hand shook so badly I almost scribbled the signature. Was I really doing the right thing? Would they ever forgive me—or would I ever forgive myself?

As a result, I became the villain in their eyes.

From that moment, every call from back home was colder, more clipped. The neighbors started whispering, and even my uncle wouldn't look me in the eye at Thanksgiving. My name was mud in that town.

They accused me of being jealous that my cousin was earning more than me, and claimed I had ruined his leg out of envy.

"You always looked down on Tyler for making cash, didn’t you?" Aunt Linda spat one night, voice shaking with rage and something else—maybe heartbreak. Her hands balled into fists, knuckles white as she stared me down. I could see the years of disappointment and love tangled up behind her glare. "I knew you didn’t want him to outdo you."

On my wedding day, my cousin pushed me out of the hotel window and killed my fiancée.

The horror still lives in my bones—the glint of madness in Tyler’s eyes, the way time slowed as I tumbled past the neon-lit city skyline, the desperate scream from my fiancée as she reached for me, then nothing but the taste of blood and broken glass. The chill of the hotel window glass against my back, the city’s neon lights smeared into streaks as I fell. Her perfume still clung to my shirt, sharp and sweet, even as everything else slipped away.

"It's all your fault! If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have lost my leg! You all deserve to die!"

He said it with a voice that echoed in my nightmares. Even now, I wake in the dark, fists clenched, her name on my lips, guilt clawing at my chest.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day of my cousin's accident.

The bedside clock was ticking, sunlight bleeding through the slats in my blinds. My heart jackhammered as I realized—God, it was all happening again. The air felt thick with dread.

I’d been given a second chance—and this time, I wasn’t going to let anyone drag me down.