Page 137 of The Games We Play
“Sandy,” I repeated, gently lifting her head and leaning down to check her breathing. Her eyes opened again, unfocused.
“Mac?” she rasped, her voice thin and dry.
“I’m here.” I scanned her quickly, looking for blood, a wound—anything—but I didn’t see any.
She tried to sit up, grimacing in pain. I helped, but she immediately winced and sank back down.
“What hurts?”
“My hip… and my head,” she murmured, her hand fumbling toward her temple.
“Okay, don’t move,” I said, cradling her gently and resting her head in my lap. I pulled out my phone and dialed the emergency number. “I’m calling someone.”
She didn’t respond. Her eyes drifted shut again.
“Hey,” I said, tapping her cheek lightly. “Come on, Sandy. Stay with me. Penny would be pissed if anything happened to you on my watch.”
A weak laugh escaped her lips, and her eyes cracked open again.
The phone rang in my ear, sharp and urgent, until a voice finally answered.
“Faircloud Emergency Service.”
“I need help at Petal Pusher on Main,” I said, forcing myself to stay calm as I looked down at Sandy. Her soft white hair was mussed, her head tilted to the side. Her eyes blinked slowly, unfocused.
“What’s the situation?” The woman on the other end asked.
“I have Sandy here. She fell and seems pretty out of it. I don’t see any blood.”
I heard the rapid clack of keys, then a pause.
“Okay. I’ve dispatched someone to your location. They’ll get her to the emergency clinic.”
“Thank you,” I said, the breath leaving my lungs in a rush of relief.
“ETA is five minutes. He’s just down the road.”
I stayed on the floor beside Sandy, gently brushing a hand over her arm to keep her alert.
She groaned softly, then cleared her throat. “Who called you?”
“Pen,” I answered. “Someone came into the library and mentioned the shop didn’t open this morning. She got worried.”
Sandy shifted, like she wanted to sit up. I gently pressed my hand to her shoulder.
“Don’t try to move. Just talk to me until help gets here.”
I wasn’t a medic, but I’d seen enough growing up—my dad on the floor too many nights after drinking himself into oblivion. You always had to be careful with head injuries. And since Sandy mentioned her hip, I could only assume she hit both on the way down.
“I’ve been down here way too long,” she muttered, her voice thinned with pain.
“Just a little longer,” I said, my tone soft. Steady.
“At least I’m lying on the lap of a handsome man.” She tried to smile, even through the pain.
I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. That was Sandy—trying to smooth the edges, even while broken.
“What happened?” I asked gently, needing to keep her talking.
