The trip to the ER is uneventful. Mostly because neither of us says much. The only words exchanged are when I ask her what her pain level is on a scale from one to ten.
“Eight and a half,” she says.
She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press.
***
When they take Elle to radiology for her X-ray, I step out into the hallway and call Mom.
Dad answers instead.
"Don’t worry, Son," he says. "We’ll keep Hannah overnight and take her to school in the morning."
"I’ll bring her a change of clothes," I offer.
"No need," he says. "We’ve got some of her things here. Don’t worry about a thing. Just take care of Elle. Call if you need anything."
"Thanks, Dad."
As soon as I hang up, I see Tina coming down the hallway.
“Cal,” she says, spotting me. “I just spoke to Elle. She’s going to be okay. It’s just a sprained ankle. The doctor’s wrapping it now. They cleaned up her scrapes and bandaged them, and she got a tetanus shot.”
She pauses, then adds, “We called in a prescription for ibuprofen. Can you swing by the pharmacy and pick it up on your way home?”
“Of course,” I say. “What time does your shift end?”
“I’m working a double tonight. I won’t be home until tomorrow morning.”
“Can she walk?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“She’s getting a set of crutches, but no, she can’t put any weight on that ankle.”
“Okay. I’ll stay with her then.”
Tina raises an eyebrow. “I doubt she’ll let you.”
“She doesn’t have a choice,” I say.
“Good luck,” she says, offering a brief smile before her tone turns sober. “Listen, I have to get back, but yeah—stay with her at least until she goes to bed. Make sure she takes a couple of ibuprofen, and I’ll be home before she wakes up in the morning.”
***
After they discharge Elle, they wheel her out of the ER to where I’ve parked the car. I take the crutches and set them in the back seat, then help her into the passenger seat. She’s quiet, begrudgingly accepting my help.
"Thank you," she finally says, giving me a sideways glance.
"Don't mention it," I reply. "I hadn't seen you out on the trail in a while. Figured it was because you were avoiding me."
"You're not wrong," she admits. "But I appreciate your help today. And… thank you for the keepsake box and everything you put in it."
"Elle—"
"Please, let me finish," she says, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Thank you for raising Beth to be who she is. She's an amazing girl."
I wait.
"I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful for what your family did for my sister. I’m forever thankful. Knowing that she’s been safe, healthy, and happy for the last ten years has given me a kind of peace I hadn’t known since the day I lost her."
