My foot went through the glass. The sound was surprising, a staccato of hollow ringing. Even more surprising was that when I retrieved my leg, a large triangle of glass came with it, embedded in my calf.
I staggered, reaching out for something to hold on to, but my leg gave way beneath me. As I fell, I saw every mistake I'd ever made, and I had just enough time to register that none of them had been as bad as this one.
THWACK. The pavement tasted salty metallic. I blacked out.
I woke with a start. Horizontal. Tried to get to my feet, but my leg was braced and my head felt like someone had stuffed it full of nails. I squinted my eyes to try and focus. I was in hospital. Without the baby.
A pressure built up on my chest, and kept building, like a marching band trampling my ribcage. It grew into a full-on military tattoo. I was officially the worst father – no, the worst person – in the world. If I was on a life-support machine, it should be switched off now.
