“Jerry, you violated company policy!” my boss Jeff shouts at me. “Get out. You’re done.” He throws his hands up in exasperation. “And you were my best employee. No wonder you got work done so fast. You subcontracted your work to other people. I can’t believe it.”  
I perform the walk of shame. I bow my head and head outside. I get into my car, a Porsche that I had just recently from my increasing paycheck. I search up the nearest bar and I know that my goal is to drink my sorrows away.

I floor my accelerator across the intersection. The screeching of car tires alarms me to my left. I tilt my neck slowly to right right. A slam reaches my seat and the only thing I register before blacking out is the pain in my ribs. 

I open my eyes to a white ceiling. I tilt my head upwards and lift my head off the bed. A racking pain fills my pain and my stomach convulses in agony. I have time just to put my head down before a doctor briskly walks into the room.
“You’re awake! I have some good news and some bad news. Which one would you like to hear first, good or bad?” asks the doctor.
Ooh. I have always hated these types of scenarios. It was a choice between a rock and a hard place.
“Bad, I guess,” suddenly finding it hard to speak so the “guess” came out in a croak. Save the best for last.
“The man you hit,” pausing for a moment, the doctor continues, “will never fully recovery from what you did to him.”  And then it dawns on me. I am responsible for the disability of a person.

The next morning, the doctor tells informs me that I am well and ready to leave. I hop in my Porsche and take the exit to Market Street. I just recently purchased my highly luxurious apartment, a studio that cost me $2500/month. I step up the entrance and realize I haven’t even checked the date yet. I pull out my key and unlock the door. I enter and flip the light switch and pull out my cell phone, a rose gold IPhone 6s, and on it, it reads July 9th, 10 days since my crash.
I decide to check the mail since maybe I didn’t check the mail for a long time. I go to my mailbox and pull everything out. There is a large pile that I just throw on my table. I go through my mail, one by one, until I see one that really catches my eye. It reads:

To whom it may concern:
Mr. Jerry Brown

Dear Mr. Brown:
I am the man who you ruined life for. I am the man who you mistakenly hit when you were in your alcoholic state. My name is Greg. Currently, my entire lower body is in paralysis. I will meet you on the June, 13th 2015 in the State Court in San Jose.

Sincerely,
Greg
Holy mackerel, this was insane. I smacked my face intensely with my palm. This was interesting. In four days, I would be going to court to defend the fortune I had been building up for the past fourteen years and face sentence if the judge declared me guilty of being under alcoholic influence.
It will be up to me to persuade Greg into discontinuing his idea for suing. Quickly, I become an internet stalker and find his address on his Facebook profile. I get in my Porsche and drive to his house. It was clean but small, very tidy. I knocked on the door and a rusty voice said “come in.” I open the door and I look at a old man in a wheelchair. We stare at each other for a few seconds.
“You,” he says. There was an intense silence between us and I had this desire to end it.         “I’m sorry.” I speak, as if insincere. “I know I don’t sound sincere but…” My voice breaks into little sobs.
“You only came because you want to persuade me to not sue you,” Greg accuses. For a moment I think that he will just say leave and “But to see a young man like you with a future unlike me. I will call off the sue. It will pain my heart to see another man’s life ruined.” He turns his head to look at me, dismissing me.
And with that, I left, my heart complete.