But that’s for later. Right now, this girl needs help.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I say, even though nothing about this is okay. “I’m gonna help you through this. We’re gonna handle it.”
She pulls back, eyes almost swollen shut from crying. “I… I don’t know what to do.”
“First things first—have you seen a doctor?”
She shakes her head. “The bruises are gone. Everything’s faded. I’m not even sore anymore. It’s been over a week.”
“Doesn’t matter. You need to get checked out.”
“Kel uses condoms,” she says. She averts her gaze from mine like she’s suddenly embarrassed. “When I asked him… he said he used one.”
“I don’t give a damn what he said. You say you can’t remember it. You’ve got to be sure. There’s a twenty-four-hour clinic across town. They’ll take care of you, run tests, make sure you’re healthy.”
“I don’t want to?—”
“Solana, you’ve got to let them look at you,” I interrupt, taking her hands in mine. “This is important. They can help. They can document things, get you resources, whatever you need.”
Her bottom lip trembles. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course I’m coming with you. We’ll go now, alright?”
She nods, letting me help her to her feet. I grab her jacket from a hook by the door and offer it to her.
Everything about how she’s carrying herself says exhausted and drained. She’s been through it just by remembering more details from that night.
“Silver?” she mumbles as I open my truck door for her.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry to pull you into this.”
There’s a sad air of defeat about her, as if she believes this is some chore. She’s bothered me by reaching out. She thinks she’s a burden.
Then I remember how empty her house is and how Big Eddie and Moses aren’t as around as maybe they should be. Her friends are shit.
No wonder she thinks what she does.
My hand cups the back of her head in a soft caress as I hold the truck door open for her and wait for her to climb in.
“Don’t ever apologize to me,” I say earnestly. “I’m always gonna be here for you, alright? If there’s one thing you don’t ever forget, don’t forget that.”
The twenty-four-hour clinic in town is nearly empty except for two people at the front desk clutching their paper bag of medicine. One of them has a cast while the other swipes their card in a card machine.
The place is quiet and discreet, tucked out of the way on the corner of some shopping mall. But on the inside the lights are bright, washing out everything they touch.
Solana shrinks into herself as we step toward the front desk to be checked in.
“You’re not leaving, right?” she whispers.
“I’ll be right here in the waiting room,” I promise. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A nurse calls her name only a few minutes later. Solana looks back at me one more time, eyes wide with fear, before following the woman down a narrow hallway.
The door clicks shut, and I’m alone with uncomfortable plastic chairs and the clatter of the receptionist’s keyboard as she types into her computer.
I drop into a seat, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight. Every minute that ticks by is torture.
