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“Sophy? Should we call the ambulance or would it be quicker if I carried you to my car?” Don was asking, and she finally registered the anxious queries.
Ambulance?
Well, yes. She would need to go to the hospital, wouldn’t she, if they had to reattach her foot. She turned at last, stretching her neck to view the leg in question and was vaguely astonished to see that all appendages were intact.
Not pointing in the right direction, but intact.
Oh.
The pain and the nausea hit simultaneously, as if the disgusting sight was all her brain needed to connect the missing wires to her nerves.
“The car,” she managed at last, through gritted teeth. “I’ll go in the car.”
This was ridiculous. She was not having emergency services summoned on her behalf for the third time in as many weeks. Her photo would end up in a staffroom somewhere.
And this was now officially the worst twenty-four hours of her entire life.
***
It was the same damn hospital room.
At least they’d let her keep her own skirt and blouse for the time being. Sophy lay on the bed with her foot splinted in a temporary cast. They were transferring her to Dunedin tomorrow to see an orthopaedic surgeon, so she was going to have to ride in the ambulance again after all. Unbelievable.
The nurse was plumping her pillows with one hand and holding a thermometer to her ear with the other. It clicked and he took it away to check the reading.
“All good,” he said, smiling at her. “How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”
“Five,” said Sophy.
It was at least a six, but she wasn’t ready to take her pain pills yet, not until she’d seen Mick. There were overdue things to be said and she didn’t want to be as high as a kite when she said them.
It had been a reasonably nasty break and a very long few hours. She’d finally managed to get rid of Don and Dale by faking a nap. They had fussed and clucked through every examination and unpleasant procedure. Dale had been particularly bad, apparently suffering severe and misplaced guilt as if he was responsible for her inability to remain safely upright.
“Someone will bring you something to eat soon,” went on the cheery nurse. “In the meantime, is there someone I can call for you?”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks.” Sophy reached for her phone on the bedside table. “I can do it.”
At last. It had been taken off her when she’d arrived and this was the first moment she’d had to herself.
Her thumb moved quickly and unhesitatingly over the screen. The text was brief and to the point.
I love you. I’m sorry. And I’ve broken my ankle.
He broke all speed records in calling her back.
She had just ended a rapid-fire interrogation over the phone as to her location, the extent of her injuries and why the hell hadn’t she called him earlier, for God’s sake, Sophy, when her dinner tray arrived.
She stared at it in disbelief.
It was the same bloody quiche.
Literally, for all she knew. Its appearance couldn’t have worsened much even had it been left to age for a few weeks.
Grimacing, Sophy left it untouched on the tray and reached for the dessert bowl. It was unidentifiable in specifics, but appeared to contain chocolate and her leg was sore. She was watching reality TV again, her mouth full, when the door was shoved open without ceremony and Mick stood there, looking in dire need of a shave and a cold beer.
“For Christ’s sake,” he started to say, his disbelieving gaze on her suspended leg, and then he caught sight of the plate of quiche.
He stopped, blinked, and the tiniest hint of a smile turned up his lips.
