My phone jingles, and the screen lights up with Elle’s name.
"Who is it?" Mom asks, catching the look of surprise on my face.
"It's Elle," I say, answering the call. "Hello?"
I listen intently as Elle explains how she fell five miles into her eight-mile run.
"I’ll be right there," I say, already reaching into my pocket for my keys.
"What is it?" Mom asks.
"Elle went for a run and fell," I say. "She’s okay, but she twisted her ankle. I need to go get her."
"Go!" Mom says. "If she needs to go to the emergency room, go with her. Hannah can stay here as long as you need."
***
I drive into the park, following the dirt road as far as it’ll take me—close enough to the running trail where Elle said she’d be. The whole way, I’m counting every second, needing to see her with my own eyes. Needing to confirm she’s really okay.
"I'm over here!" she calls out as soon as she sees me.
The first thing I notice is the red smear on her left knee. She’s bleeding.
I run to her, trying to figure out how to approach. I want to scoop her into my arms, promise everything’s going to be okay, but I keep my distance. If she could've called someone else, she would have.
"Can you walk?" I ask, slipping my arm around her waist as she drapes hers over my shoulder.
"You're bleeding."
"It looks worse than it is," she mutters, wincing as she shifts her weight.
"I’ve got water in the car," I say, guiding her gently. "How long were you out here before you called me?"
"Not long," she replies. "Trust me, I would’ve called someone else, but Tina’s at work, and the only otherperson I know is my private eye, and he charges two hundred bucks an hour."
"I’m glad you called me," I say. I watch her flinch with every step, each one taking more effort than the last.
"My whole body aches," she admits. "I think I need to pull my leggings up past my knee."
"Let me carry you."
"No way," she says quickly, stopping mid-step. "Just… give me a second."
She bends over to tug at the fabric, but I kneel beside her. "Here, let me."
Carefully, I push the fabric up past her knee, revealing a raw, nasty scrape still oozing blood.
"We’ll clean it up as soon as we get back to the house."
She nods and braces herself against me again.
"On second thought, I think I should take you to the ER—just to be safe. Let them check your ankle, make sure it’s not broken."
"Okay," she says quietly.
She doesn’t argue. And that alone tells me she’s hurting a lot more than she’s letting on.
I help her into the car, pausing just long enough to look into her eyes. She looks vulnerable, worn down by pain and exhaustion. But the anger is still there, simmering just beneath the surface.
