Page 86 of About That Night

“You were probably on your phone,” Mrs. McDonnell says with an icy tone of condemnation. “Looking at some silly video.”

The teen’s face is full of guilt.

All I care is that Hank isn’t bleeding or crushed or twisted beyond recognition. “Does anything hurt?” I ask him.

“Just my pride. But feel free to keep groping me. I’m enjoying it.”

The inappropriate comment reassures me that he really isn’t hurt badly. “Are you sure?”

“That you should keep groping me? Yes.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I hold up two fingers.

“Two.”

That reassures me.

Hank starts to sit up and winces. “Uh, my shoulder might be a touch messed up.”

His face drains of color instantly from the motion of going vertical.

I immediately see his shoulder is drooping, dislocated. “Let’s get you out of the street, and then I’ll put your shoulder back in place.”

“Do you have to? I think I can just live with it like this.”

“Yes, I have to.” I glance around. “Someone help me get him up.”

“She’s a nurse,” Mrs. McDonnell tells everyone with a pride that, under normal circumstances, I would find sweet.

Right now, I’m just focused on getting my stomach out of my throat.

A beefy biker guy I recognize as living a few houses down hauls Hank to his feet.

“Thanks,” Hank tells him. “I’m fine, everyone. Seriously. Thank you for your help.” He gives the teen a reassuring clap on the shoulder with his uninjured arm. “It’s okay, don’t feel bad. Just lousy timing. Though I imagine we could both stand to pay a little more attention, right? That could have been a lot worse.”

The thought that it could have been so much worse makes me feel like I’m going to faint. I see little stars in front of my eyes, and a darkness descends like a summer storm cloud. Fortunately, it’s brief and recedes almost immediately, but it rattles me.

The teen nods vigorously. “I swear I will pay more attention.”

“Excellent. Have a good day, y’all.”

“Thank you,” I say to everyone. “I appreciate your help.”

“Lord, you can scream,” Mrs. McDonnell says. “You must really love this man.”

“I do.” There’s no question about that.

I reach for Hank, feeling a little weak in the knees, but then I realize I’m actually hanging on him more than I’m helping him. Taking a deep breath, I put my hand on his lower back and guide him toward the house. He’s limping, but I don’t readily see the cause. His clothes are covered in dirt and gravel. I can see he has road rash all over his injured arm and his temple. He’s lucky he didn’t land on his head.

The thought makes me shudder.

Once we reach the porch, he actually sits down heavily in one of the plastic chairs. “Let’s do this thing,” he says. “What do I do with my arm? Hold it, lift it, what?”

Attempting to be detached, I speak to him the way I would any patient. “I’m just going to take your wrist and pull your arm outward. It will guide the ball of your bone back to the arm socket. It will still be sore, but it should feel better than it does right now.”

“I don’t think it can feel much worse.” He gives me a smile, but it’s a pained one.

I take his wrist and get a firm grip on it. “You ready?”

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