“We’re just getting your ankle checked,” he says quietly. “That’s it.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one mentally calculating how much urgent care costs while pretending not to panic.
The waiting room smells faintly like antiseptic and coffee.
I sit beside Daltyn, trying not to bounce my knee anxiously while he fills out paperwork because apparently he’s decided I’m incapable of doing anything myself now.
“I can fill out my own forms.”
“You wrote your birthday wrong twice.”
“I was stressed.”
“You wrote that you were born in 2019.”
I glare at him.
His mouth twitches.
My heart leaps at the sight.
Traitor.
A few minutes later, the doctor—a kind older woman named Dr. Reynolds—examines my ankle carefully while Daltyn stands nearby with his arms crossed.
“She’s been walking on it too much,” he says. “Even though she’s wearing a CAM boot.”
I look offended. “I have things to do.”
“You tried carrying laundry.”
“One basket. I was helping Thelma.”
“She is perfectly capable of carrying a laundry basket.”
Dr. Reynolds hides a smile as she examines me.
“It’s a mild sprain,” she finally says after reviewing the X-rays. “No fracture.”
Relief crashes through me.
“You’ll want to continue wearing the boot until Sunday,” she continues. “You can walk on it normally, but no exercising or unnecessary strain.”
Daltyn nods like he’s receiving military orders.
“She also needs to stop wearing death traps,” he adds.
I gasp. “You cannot say that to a medical professional.”
Dr. Reynolds laughs openly this time. “What are death traps?”
I cross my arms. “An innocent pair of heeled sandals.”
“Actually, he’s not wrong.”
Betrayal.
Absolute betrayal.
