I had worked construction for the better part of my 20s before the accident.

I never had the know-how to get into engineering school like my parents wanted for me, but I preferred to work with my hands anyhow.

Jobs came and went, contracts ended, but ultimately I always had a site to work or a building to put up.

When the Whitlam Hawthorne Group offered me a foreman position for the construction project of their new headquarters, I accepted in a heartbeat.

Job security from a company like WHG with a salary that I'd only dreamed of and benefits to match.

That would be stupid not to accept.

The foundation had barely been poured on the site when the collapse happened.

No one knew who exactly was to blame, whether it was the surveyors, the engineers, or just some freak accident.

But those of us caught in the rubble only had the parent company to point our fingers at.

Three men dead.

Thirteen injured.

It was apparently a serious enough legal threat that Whitlam Hawthorne opted to offer us each

a generous settlement outside of court.

You could judge all you want that my silence was bought, but six zeros on a check, well,

that would buy yours too.

In addition, they also offered me a systems job that I'd be able to work from home, and even a reduced

renters rate at one of their apartment complexes in a unit that would accommodate the wheelchair

that I'd be confined to the rest of my life. Until then, I didn't even know they owned any residential

properties, but the complex looked decent enough on the pamphlet that they sent me.

After all, I certainly couldn't live alone in my current fourth-floor apartment anymore.

I moved in nearly the beginning of February last year.

I won't lie, the adjustment to everything at once hit me a lot harder than it should have.

...