Page 3 of Hail Marry
Once I’m satisfied danger has passed, I roll off the young woman and to the side.
“Are you okay?” A stranger hovers over us with a crease the size of the Grand Canyon in her brow.
Others gather around, their long-awaited pedestrian light forgotten in the drama of the moment.
Vaguely aware of an ache in my shoulder, I go up on my elbow for a better view of the young woman, who’s on her back, staring up at the multiplying faces with wide, brown eyes, her head resting on a pillow of her own hair.
“Give her some space,” I say. When you’re injured, there’s nothing worse than having your entire field of vision taken up by a dozen people looking down on you like something’s seriously wrong.
My command does the trick, and everyone takes a couple steps back.
I turn my attention back to the woman, who looks up at me with confusion.
“Did you hit your head?” I ask.
She tries to lift it, and I use a gentle but firm hand to stop her, my fingers disappearing in the waves of her hair.
“Don’t move it,” I say.
She reaches a hand to her crown and winces slightly. She must’ve hit it. How hard is the question.
Nerves flutter in my stomach. Head injuries always make me crazy anxious.
“Can you move your fingers and toes?” I ask.
She wiggles her fingers, and my gaze shoots to her feet, but she’s wearing close-toed shoes.
“They’re wiggling,” she says.
“She should go to the hospital,” a man says.
“No,” she says, pushing herself up. “I’m fine.”
“You’re going to the hospital,” I say.
“I’m fine,” she repeats.
I shake my head. “I can drive you the five minutes there, or I can call an ambulance to take you. Your choice.” I don’t mess around when it comes to head injuries.
She shoots me a frowning look. “You’re kind of mean.”
Caught off guard, I chuckle and push myself to my feet. “Which’ll it be? My car’s just across the street.”
She hesitates, like she’s weighing getting into a car with a stranger against the drama of a five-minute ambulance ride.
“The hospital’s really that close?” she asks with a hint of skepticism.
“Yep,” one of the old women confirms. “Had my knee done there in December.” She bends the knee, showing it off under her perfectly creased, purple pants.
“And I hadmygallbladder removed there in February,” her friend pipes up. “The tapioca from the cafeteria is top-notch.”
“I can drive myself,” the young woman says.
“No,” I say flatly amidst a chorus ofno’s from our audience.
“Okay, jeez,” the young woman says. She looks at me for a second.
It hits me that maybe she’s afraid of going with me. I look around at our audience for an alternative—someone she might feel more comfortable with. But it’s slim pickin’s. “Is anyone else’s car closer?”
