Hospitals weren't actually white. Farkle had forgotten that. The last time he'd been in one had been when Riley was seven years old and had to get her tonsils out. He remembered bringing her ice cream and buying her Hazel the Hippo. He remembered staying with her until she fell asleep, telling her fun facts about outer space that his mom was too busy to listen to.

But Riley wasn't seven anymore. She didn't have tonsilitis. She wasn't in there getting a routine procedure and a pat on the back. There had been an accident on the corner of Halsted and Main. Come, Mr. Matthews had said. Come quick.

And Farkle came. He was the first one there. Mr. and Mrs. Matthews were busy talking to the doctors and the waiting room felt cold and lonely. Riley was only sixteen years old. She was supposed to be on her way home from the park. Farkle thought it a great injustice that the idiot cab driver who hadn't bothered to look both ways was completely unscathed while Riley was strung up in a hospital bed fighting for her life. Farkle didn't know how to feel. The only thing he was sure of was that she had to be okay, because that was the only thing that made sense. What good was a universe without Riley Matthews in it?