When Liv Moore was 7 years old, she hit her head in the sidewalk outside of her family’s large home in the suburbs of New York. Her family remembered that day well, because Liv was never the same after it.
It was a sunny April afternoon, and all 6 of the Moore children were playing in the front yard. Gill was 10, and he was riding his bike. Meg was 8, and she was practicing her dance routine with her friend Jasmine. Tally was 5, and she was playing catch wither mother, Ilyana, on the driveway. Liv and her twin sister, Kila, were playing tag, going back and forth between the grass and the sidewalk. Back and forth, back and forth, almost 20 times.
Kila and Liv were easy to tell apart. While they shared the same thick white-blond hair, Kila had hazel eyes, while Liv had light blue. Kila had thinner lips than Liv. Liv had a beauty mark above her lip. Little things set them apart.
In Liv’s opinion, it all went so fast. In Kila’s, it all went so slow.
Kila was it, and as she chased Liv onto the sidewalk, she saw her sister trip over Gill’s skateboard.
Liv never cared about that part. All she remembered was her vision going black.
Kila was crying. Actually, she was sobbing. She thought it was her fault. She could vividly recall her mother calling the ambulance, and then her father, Aiden, in a hurry. It made Kila hurt inside.
Liv didn’t know what was going on. She felt tears coming out of her eyes, but she couldn’t see them. ‘What’s going on?’ She thought. Next, she heard ambulances’ sirens whining extremely loudly. ‘Why do they sound so loud’? She wondered. She screamed when she was hoisted up, and then put back down. Many voices bombarded her like a salvo of bullets.

“What happened?” she heard one man ask.

“Just relax, sweetheart,” she heard another one say.

“Honey,” her mother wailed. “Listen to what they say,” she pleaded.
Without questions, Liv laid her head down on what she assumed to be a stretcher.
Kila stayed at home with her father. She was scared for Liv. She pinned the blame on herself. She needed to hug her teddy bear, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t because it was in the room she shared with Liv.
Liv didn’t know what day it was, what time it was, or who was in her hospital room other that her parents and a doctor named Dr. Fernbach. She just wished she knew a little more.
Kila was pacing outside of Liv’s hospital room. She was holding Liv’s favorite teddy bear in one hand and flowers and balloons in the other. Any minute, as soon as her parents got Liv’s diagnosis, she’d be able to see her sister.
Liv heard her parents crying, and Dr. Fernbach saying things like:


“I’m so sorry,”


“I wish I could do something to help her,”
I’m blind, she realized.