The crunch of the snow and gasps of agony were the only sounds I could hear as I encountered my brother tangled among the trees. As I skied toward the edge, I first noticed one bright red ski, broken evergreen branches, and then Ben. There was only the faint sound of heavy breathing. I yelled his name; he whimpered back. My thoughts immediately wailed, I’m only 8; I can’t handle this! Alone, I skied to the base of the run hoping to find my parents.

As I raced down, I saw the glimmer of my mom’s green helmet and started to cry. No words could form from my bone-dry mouth. She immediately asked about Ben and I just pointed to the black diamond run above and screamed, “He’s hurt!” A family friend shuffled me to the warming hut and my parents went into emergency response mode. My dad jumped on the lift and my mom started pacing and calling ski patrol. The next few moments were a blur of panic, and ski patrol snowmobiles racing up the mountain to find my brother. I just sat there in a state of dread, holding my knees, while rocking back and forth and feeling an immense sense of guilt. My parents and brother were at the center of the vortex, but I was the cause. I’d deviated from the run and Ben had chased after me to make sure I was okay.

Several minutes passed and the snowmobile emerged with Ben in the stretcher behind it. He was whisked off in an ambulance with my parents and headed to emergency surgery for his leg. At that moment, I began to comprehend the fragility of life and how one impulsive move can create a catastrophic impact for my family.