It had been months since my son had worn tzitzis
“What have you done now?” I ask.
The clock tells me it’s five thirty a.m. That isn’t so strange — my son and the group of friends he hangs out with don’t have the same sense of time most of civilization does.
An unfamiliar voice takes over the line, and the speaker identifies himself as a Hatzalah volunteer. “Geveret, your son has been in an accident, and he’s a minor. Do we have your permission to treat him?”
“Yes, of course.”
I’m not concerned. My son sounds totally fine. I roll over and try to go back to sleep, annoyed he’d been involved in whatever antics I assume had caused a minor accident.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been woken that night.
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