Quiet. Like it is every day before he puts in his hearing aids—when he bothers to, that is. Another reason to sulk: losing his hearing at the age of independence, when life starts. He’s twenty now, still waking up wondering why his alarm didn’t go off, only to be reminded of what happened. A car crash a year, seven months, and three days ago.
His parents were driving him to college. A quiet ride. Until it wasn’t. When the coroners arrived, he couldn’t hear what they said. He could only see the ambulance lights and the bodies being bagged up.