When I got to the corner I found my wife already standing there. She greeted me frantically with the words I was dreading to hear, "It was their car! It was Curtis. They were in an accident. I found his jacket and my cellphone in the grass. They won't tell me where he is or what's happened to him!" I put my arm around her shoulder and together we walked out to the middle of the intersection where the police officers were standing. They still would not (or could not) give us much information about what had happened to our son. Was he injured? What hospital had he been take to? Was he alive? My mind was reeling and flooded with questions, some of which I could not bring myself to give voice to.  One officer said he would try to find out where our son had been taken. Finally after several minutes of standing in the middle of the street immersed in our worst fears, we were told that he had been taken to a local hospital. The officer said that he would transport us in a squad car and that the department chaplain would accompany us. I was so caught up in the situation that only later did it dawn on me why the chaplain needed to come with us to the hospital. What I said before about the drive from the high school to the corner being the worst drive of my life was wrong. The drive to the hospital was the worst. I wondered why the officer and the chaplain seemed to be chatting so calmly with each other. I told myself, "I guess it's because they deal with things like this all the time." Why aren't we going faster? Why don't they at least have the squad car lights on?  If my son is injured and frightened I want to get there to be with him. Why are we moving like we're just out for an afternoon drive?