I focus on the road, willing myself not to cry. This is not the time for Storm sister trauma. This is the time to get my injured neighbor to the hospital and prove that I, too, can handle a crisis.
I pull up to the emergency entrance at the hospital and throw the car in park.
“Stay here,” I tell him, already climbing out. “I’ll get help.”
I run inside and grab the first nurse I see. She follows me outside with a wheelchair and another nurse, and together they get Asher out of the passenger seat with significantly more grace than I got him in. He sinks into the wheelchair with visible relief.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says. In the harsh fluorescent light of the ER entrance, I can see how much pain he’s in. His face is pale, jaw tight, but there’s something else in his eyes. Embarrassment, maybe.
“I’ll park and come in,” I say. “Make sure you’re okay, if that’s okay with you.” I don’t have anywhere to be except the weird motel, and I’m curious how this guy will get back to his house.
He studies me for a moment, then nods. The nurses wheel him inside, and I climb into my borrowed car.
My phone explodes with messages the second I put it in park:
Esther
DID YOU DIE?
Esther
ANSWER ME
Esther
EVA MARIE STORM I SWEAR TO GOD
I text back quickly:
Long story. I’m at a hospital. Not hurt, helping neighbor. Will call later.
I look at myself in the rearview mirror. My hair is a disaster, half falling out of its clip. There are leaves stuck in it and dirt smudged on my cheek. My jacket is filthy, and I’m pretty sure I’m still shaking. Have I eaten?
What a first day of property ownership.
I take a deep breath, fix my hair as best I can, and head inside. I give my name at the desk and learn that Asher is waiting to see a doctor. I sink into a plastic chair in the waiting room, pulling out my phone to distract myself. I should post something—my followers are probably wondering where I’ve been—but what would I even say? “Day one of rural living: met my yeti neighbor as he broke his ankle, dragged him to the car, took him to Climax. Living my best life!”
I’m drafting and deleting a much more boring post about “exploring my new-to-me property” when a nurse approaches.
“Miss Storm? Mr. Thorne is asking for you.”
This surprises me, though I’m not sure why. If he had someone else to help him, he would have mentioned them by now, right?
I follow her through a maze of hallways to an exam room. Asher sits on the table, his ankle already wrapped in a temporary splint while he clutches his shoe to his chest. He looks exhausted and miserable… and somehow younger without the woods and darkness around him.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey.” He attempts a smile. “We’re waiting for imaging. But it’s definitely broken. Maybe surgery, they think.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. I was the creep in the woods, lurking.”
So he was peeping on me. I guess I’d be curious, too, if I lived alone and heard me spouting my nonsense outside. “I still feel terrible.”
A doctor bustles in before we can continue. She confirms the break, explains the casting process, talks about crutches and non-weight-bearing and follow-up appointments. Asher nods along, but panic flashes across his face when she says, “six to eight weeks.”
The doctor leaves, and silence falls between us. I should probably go. I’ve done my good deed for the day. But he’s also sort of stuck here.
