“You'll recover well, Lauren,” the doctor says. “You can use crutches or a knee scooter to get around until you see the specialist. The cast will keep everything held in place. I'll write a prescription for pain medication?—”
“Ibuprofen is fine,” I say firmly. “I've read too much about those pills to be comfortable with them. I'd rather just manage.”
She gives me an appraising look. “That's your call. Just don't try to tough it out completely — undertreated pain slows healing. Ibuprofen on a proper schedule, not just when it's unbearable. Pain meds for tonight and tomorrow, at the least.”
“Deal.”
“And no alcohol this weekend.”
“That’s probably not a bad thing.” I glance at the cast on my ankle and feel the specific misery of someone whose carefully constructed plans have just been rearranged by a piece of Florida limestone. “What exactly is a knee scooter?”
The explanation, when it comes, does not improve my evening, because it looks like the maid of honor at Kate’s wedding will be rolling, not walking, down the aisle.
With Max Hastings at her side.
