Halfway back, she stirs. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my jacket with the grip of someone who holds on to whatever's solid.
Her eyes crack open, unfocused and concussion-cloudy. But I know.
“Jenna?”
It comes out before I can stop it. Her name is in the open air for the first time, not into a phone, not in the dark of my room. Here. With her blood on my shirt.
She doesn’t respond. Her fingers tighten on my jacket for one breath, then go slack.
I walk faster.
Entering the living room, I place her in the corner of the couch, where the arm meets the back cushion, so that when she wakes, she’ll feel supported and safe. I don’t think about why I know she needs that sense of security or why she’s here early. I just do it. The desire to take care of her is instinctual.
I carefully remove her sneakers, noticing they’re worn at the heels, the laces knotted instead of tied. I set them by the couch, pointing toward the door. Easy to find. I lay the wool blanket over her without tucking it in so she doesn’t feel trapped whenshe wakes. Her dark-framed, oversized glasses are askew. My thumb brushes her temples as I reach out instinctively to remove them, and I pull my hand back as if I’ve been burned.
Her bag goes by the door. Her keys on the side table.
Maggie, always an early riser, appears in the doorway as I stand over her, taking in the scene with the calm of a woman who’s raised Sutton men for thirty years. She sees the blood on my shirt, the woman on the couch, and doesn’t flinch.
“Found her in the ditch by the south fence,” I say. “Car’s wrecked. Head wound, scrapes, possible concussion.”
“I’ll call Doc Henderson.” Maggie disappears.
A minute later, I hear her on the phone, followed by the click of the stove. Maggie’s solution to every crisis is to feed everyone.
In the lamplight, I look at her properly for the first time. The bitten nails, gnawed to the quick. Dark circles so deep they look painted on. Slight and wiry, built like someone who takes up as little space as possible. Her sleeves have ridden up, and the skin on her forearms is red and inflamed, raised in patches that have nothing to do with any car wreck.
Maggie returns with a mug of coffee, which she holds out to me. She gives me a knowing look, but she doesn’t voice all the questions in her eyes. This woman, who’s been like a mother to me, is giving me the space to deal with whatever is happening here.
Every cell in my body says that this woman on the couch is mine, my Jenna, but I can’t prove it. I’ve never had a “my” girl. I’ve had fences to fix and brothers to hold together and cats to rescue and a life built around being needed without needing anything back.
Until she wakes up and confirms her name, I’m just a stranger, hoping. And hope is something I don’t usually allow myself because hope means wanting, and wanting means it can be taken away. I’ve built an entire life around not putting myself in that position.
Maggie squeezes my shoulder, pushes the door open to the kitchen, and leaves without asking any more questions.
Doc Henderson arrives twenty minutes later with a black bag older than I am and the unhurried pace of a man who’s delivered babies and bad news in equal measure. He nods at me, glances at the woman, and doesn’t ask questions I can’t answer yet.
I step back, not far, but enough to give him room to work.
He checks her pupils with a penlight. Listens to her breathing. Presses gently along her ribs while I watch his hands and remind myself that he’s a doctor and this is medicine and my objections to him touching her are irrational.
“She’s lucky,” he says, straightening. “Mild concussion, and her scrapes are superficial.” He pauses, turning her arm gently. His brow furrows at the inflamed patches running from her wrists to her elbows. “This isn’t from the crash.”
“I know.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods. “Eczema. Moderate to severe flare. Stress-triggered, most likely.” He rummages in his bag and pulls out a tube of cream, setting it on the side table. “Twice a day on the affected areas. Gentle pressure, no rubbing. She’ll need fragrance-free everything: soap, detergent,the works. And rest. Real rest. Not the kind where she’s running on cortisol and pretending she’s fine.”
He says that last part as if he can read the woman’s entire history in her skin. Maybe he can. I file every word.
“She needs monitoring. Wake her every few hours for the concussion. If she vomits, can’t track your finger, or the headache gets significantly worse, you call me.”
“I will.”
He glances at the cream, then at me. “The ointment needs applying. Sooner is better.”
I look at Jenna’s arms. The angry red patches disappearing under her sleeves. The skin she keeps covered. The vulnerability she hasn’t chosen to show me.
“Maggie will do it,” I say.
