I’m in Memorial Hermann Hospital’s trauma center, in Houston, Texas, where my dad was sent today after a 37-year-old driver in a Honda Accord hit him while he was riding his bike. He was just bike-jacked on Sept. 11, 2013 (http://www.khou.com/news/local/Cyclist-talks-about-attack-along-popular-Houston-trail-223781991.html), which resulted in three broken ribs and a broken collarbone. This time, the tally is worse — six broken ribs, a broken thumb, and a screwed up shoulder and cracked vertebrae — not to mention a crushed cheekbone. As my dad said, “I think I’d choose the kids over the car.”

They’ll put pins in the broken bone, and figure out next steps on the vertebrae, tomorrow.

But, angry as I am at drivers, at the world, at Houston, I am overwhelmingly happy tonight to be sitting next to my dad, holding his hand, giving him water, waiting for surgery. The other, the might-have-beens, are haunting me and yet I’m keeping them at bay.

He’s alive.

He’s going to be fine.

We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.