I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t want to scream in the hallway, so I followed him.
We sat in two plastic chairs.
He rubbed his beard, took a breath, and looked me in the eye.
“My name is Mike,” he said. “I’m 58. I’ve got a wife, Denise, and a granddaughter named Lily.”
I waited.
“And?” I said.
He swallowed.
“I’m also the man who hit your daughter,” he said.
“I was the drunk driver.”
It was like my brain cut out for a second.
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