Everything's normal. My father and I, coming back from somewhere or other, reach the car. He opens his door on the driver's side and I open mine on the passenger's. I sit down, relaxed. 

My dad did as usual: pressing his hands onto the carseat, lifting his body off of his wheelchair and manoeuvring the legs and waist he couldn't feel onto the seat in place of his palms. He is paralysed from the chest down, but has full use of his arms. He drives his car with hand controls. 

Suddenly a crash. A mistake, he's missed, underestimating distance. He shouts my name, stressed, my heart rate rises. I jump out the car and move around to his side. 

Crumpled between his doorframe and his wheelchair, touching the concrete floor, he directs me to move his chair and pull him back onto his seat. 

The carpark seems to have eyes now, I feel watched by the passers-by that soon rush over to help. But they wouldn't understand what to do or what the problem was. 

My face is red and I'm embarrassed. I don't know why, really.