“Who’s asking?”
“This is Patricia from the Stoneheart Community Center. Emma’s hurt. She’s asking for you.”
My blood goes cold. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. She collapsed during her class. Won’t let us call an ambulance, won’t go to the hospital. Just keeps saying to call you.”
I’m already moving, grabbing my keys, my cut. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
I hang up and yell to Felix—my supervisor and Poppy’s brother—that I have an emergency. He waves me off without question and I’m in my work truck before I can think too hard about whatcollapsedmight mean.
The drive to the community center takes four minutes. Feels like four hours.
I find her in the dance studio, sitting on the floor with her back against the mirror wall, right ankle draped in one of those blue gel ice packs. A dozen kids are clustered around her, and Patricia—a woman in her sixties who runs the center—is trying to shoo them away.
“Emma.” I’m across the room in seconds, dropping to my knees beside her. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” she says immediately, but her face is pale and there’s sweat beading at her temples. “Just twisted it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not buying it.” I gently move her hands and the ice pack away to look at the ankle. It’s already swollen, angry and red. “How bad does it hurt?”
“It’s fine?—”
“Swan. How bad?”
Her eyes meet mine and the facade drops. “Pretty bad.”
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Not negotiable.” I look at Patricia. “Can someone take over the class?”
“Already done. Her sub will be here in ten minutes.”
“Good.” I turn back to Emma. “I’m going to pick you up. Just let me do it and don’t try to help or put weight on it.”
“Bones, I can walk?—”
“No, you can’t.” I slide one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lift her as carefully as I can. She hisses in pain anyway, and guilt twists in my gut. “Is this a freak accident or is there more to your ankle problems than you’ve let on?”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Emma.”
“It’s been going on a while,” she admits as I carry her outside. “Since before I came back at Christmas. That’s why I wasn’t in the holiday production—I was supposed to be resting it.”
“I’m guessing that didn’t happen.”
“No. Dancing helped me process everything that was going on, you know? I kind of doubled down.”
“Jesus, swan.” I’m trying not to lose my shit while these kids are watching through the windows, but the anger is right there, sharp and hot. “You’ve been dancing on a fucked-up ankle and didn’t think to tell anyone how serious it was?”
“I was handling it?—”
“You collapsed. That’s not handling it.”
She goes quiet, and I feel like an asshole, but we’re doing this conversation later. Right now I need to get her to a doctor.
