Page 248 of Wild Card 13

“I do not need a hospital,” she objected swiftly.

“You need an X-ray,” I barked.

“I need everyone to stop fussing.”

“I can do the X-ray or the not fussing. Pick one.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think you are charming.”

“I am in crisis. This is triage charm.”

Grandpa gave a quiet cough that might have been a laugh if fear had not been sitting so plainly in the mudroom with us.

I got my grandmother upright carefully. She hissed once and immediately looked furious with herself for making any sound at all. Grandpa brought her coat. I got one arm through the sleeve, then the other, my hands moving slower than my pulse wanted. Keys. Wallet. Phone. Her purse from the chair. Grandpa Hal’s hat from the hook because he would forget it and Grandma would yell about that in the car, which seemed, suddenly, very important to preserve.

“Truck?” Grandpa asked.

“No,” Grandma Ruth said at the same time I said, “Sedan.”

Grandpa Hal’s sedan sat in the garage, low and sensible and designed by someone who had never met a professional hockey player with legs.

By the time I folded myself behind the wheel, my knees were close enough to the dashboard to become a legal concern.

Grandma Ruth, buckled in the back with her foot elevated across the seat, looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You look ridiculous.”

“You are welcome for my emergency services.”

“Your femurs are against the steering wheel.”

“I know where they are.”

“You should move the seat.”

“It’s all the way back.”

Grandpa Hal settled into the passenger seat and looked at my knees. “Huh.”

“Not helpful, Grandpa.”

My grandmother made a small sound in the back.

My eyes snapped to the mirror. “Pain?”

“Annoyance.”

I texted Coach at the first red light with one thumb.

Grandma fell. Taking her to hospital. I’ll miss practice. Will update.

Then I texted the team staff thread because I was still enough of a professional to know an absence without explanation turned into someone else’s problem.

Family emergency. At hospital. I’ll miss practice this morning.

Northbend General was already crowded by the time we got there, because apparently every person in the city had chosen that morning to cough, bleed, slip, or reconsider their relationship with cholesterol. I got Grandma into a wheelchair at the entrance, which she accepted with the expression of a woman being publicly slandered.

“I can walk,” she insisted.

“You cannot.”