No sound came out.
That was the moment fear truly set in—not loud, not overwhelming, but sharp and precise, like a switch flipping somewhere inside me.
My hands shook so badly I fumbled my phone twice before managing to unlock it. I don’t remember what I said when I called for help. I don’t remember the exact words, only the urgency in my own voice and the strange, detached calm of the operator on the other end.
The ambulance arrived quickly, its siren cutting through the stillness of the farmland in a way that felt almost surreal. Neighbors began to gather at a distance, their faces drawn with concern, their presence both comforting and overwhelming.
As the paramedics worked, securing my father onto a stretcher, I noticed something that didn’t make sense in the moment but has stayed with me ever since: his boots were still covered in dust from the roof.
