“Blake Price. Time of death: 3:27 a.m. October 12th.” Time of death. The captain of the hockey team. The guy who got straight C's but could compose a song in four minutes. The most popular boy in school. My brother. Time of death: 3:27 a.m.

I was in the car when it happened. He was yelling at a girl in the front seat. She had a nice face and kind eyes. I remember because she looked at me through the window when my brother left her in the rain. His headlight was out, and somehow it was her fault. He was drunk. I remember because he was listening to rap. He hates rap. It was dark and raining. I looked at the clock. It was 2:38 a.m. I remember because I saw it on Blake's phone when it lit up, showing that he had a text message. He read it. I know this because I watched him take his eyes off the road for two whole seconds. Two seconds is all it takes for a car to drift into oncoming traffic.

All of a sudden it was 3:27 a.m. I remember because that's when Dr. Brown said my brother died. You're fine, he told me. Not a scratch or a bruise. I should have been grateful. I'm still not grateful.

I work as a speech therapist now. I sit at my desk in my office and help people talk. People who need help communicating. I sit in my office every day and see people who come to me for help.

Right now, it's 3:15 p.m. I know this because I've waited patiently all day for this hour to come.

He walks in and sits in the green chair. His favorite chair. I ask him how he is and how he's liking college. He tells me as best he can. My eyes trace the scar on his bald head as he struggles to speak. He has seven scars. I know this because I've counted. Two on his eye. One on his head. Three running down his right arm and one running diagonal across his mouth. My heart aches for this young man. After he answers my questions, I ask if he's ready. He nods and we walk to the convention center together.

There are about 200 more people than he expected. I know this because his hands are at his sides, playing the imaginary piano on his pant leg. He is nervous, but ready. I sit next to my mom and dad, and watch as he walks to the stage. I look around and see familiar faces. Dr. Brown waves at me. I smile at him and motion to my watch. He smiles. It is 3:27 p.m. Time of death. The young man on stage clears his throat. Heads turn.

“I have aphasia,” he begins. “A brain disorder that limits my speaking ability.” He speaks like a deaf man. Everyone smiles.

“I am here today to share my story. My name is Blake Price. Time of death: 3:27 a.m. Time of miracle: 3:29 a.m.”