Ben Ten Little Piggies (and then there were nine)

So, I broke a kid's toe today.
At work. Not a child, but a coworker, for those of you who know I work in a toy store but not how I liberally use the word ‘kid.’ This kid was in his early 20s. (presumably he still is, with the mortality rate of broken toes being what they are.)
Breaking a toe may seem like a strange result working in a toy store, especially considering it was the big toe; the hardest one to break; the one that went to market.
But I did it by accidentally lowering a one-ton palette of sand on it. And then quickly jacking the palette jack back up as his face contorted in pain and he kept repeating, “Up, up, up!”
He took it well. Better than I would have.
Better than I did.
I am now in a funk over this accident that I can’t help thinking I could have prevented. I’m not sure how. Is there anything worse than accidentally hurting someone you hardly know, wondering why this had to happen, and how this person is going to react?
Is there anything worse than watching as he limps away, unable to put weight on the toe, and knowing that’s your fault?
Did I ruin the next six weeks of his life?
Will I be in trouble with his family, with my boss, with his friends and my coworkers?
Why did this happen to me? Why?
Will he hate me? Be mad? Be angry? Be forgiving?
Is there anything worse than the unknowing? The moments before you apologize, before you know for sure the extent of the damage?
Is there anything worse than the guilt feelings that have been lingering with me all day; the guilt that hung in the air in the back of the truck almost too thick to push boxes through as I finished unloading without my partner who was on his way to the hospital?
Is there anything worse than that?
Of course there is.
Having a broken toe and being on my way to the hospital.
And the guilt grows …

(Be well, Ben Ten.)