In mid-November of our sophomore year, I broke my ankle.

It had been a complete accident. Elliott and I had been at our favorite hiking trail, butterfly nets in hand when I slipped over the moldy leaves.

   The pain had been excruciating and it took us nearly an hour to get to someplace that had cell reception. And almost another half-hour for the ambulance to get there.

    All the while Elliott tried to distract me. He brought out his butterfly encyclopedia, asking me which one I liked best (Queen’s Butterfly), asked what I wanted to be when I grew up (veterinarian), and where I wanted to go to college (not sure yet).

    But even that couldn’t distract me from the fact that the bone was sticking out and my once white sock was now a deep red. I remember with shacky hands, I pulled the sock back and I remember seeing the bone and vomiting in my lap and crying harder. He leaned over and grabbed my hand and told me that it would be alright. He looked like he was about to vomit as well.

    When the ambulance did come, he held my hand the whole way to the hospital and he didn’t let go until the wheeled me to the back.