Page 57 of Josephine and Clay

“Look at me,” somebody says.

I drag my gaze up. One of the medics is kneeling over me, sunglasses shoved up on his head, mouth moving calm even while the whole world shakes around us. “You with me?”

“Unfortunately,” I grind out.

That gets the barest ghost of a grim smile. “Good. Need you to stay with me, alright?”

“Kind of busy.”

“You know where you are?”

“Arena.”

“What day is it?”

I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, trying to drag my brain through the pain. “Saturday?”

“It’s Monday.”

“Hell.” I open my eyes again. “That bad, huh?”

“Leg’s broken,” he says. No dancing around it. “We’re gonna get you loaded up.”

Broken.

The word shouldn’t hit harder than the pain already does, but it does. Because pain is pain. Immediate. Animal. Here and now.

Broken means later. Weeks, months, recovery, sitting still.

Broken means not riding.

“No,” I bite out before I can stop myself.

The medic’s expression doesn’t change. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Anger flares hot and stupid, mostly because there’s nowhere else for it to go. “I’m supposed to ride again in…”

My voice cuts off as they start stabilizing the leg.

White explodes across my vision.

I choke on a curse so filthy it’d make Mom slap the back of my head.

“Easy,” somebody mutters.

“Don’t tell me easy.”

But I can hear it now. In the medics. In the men standing nearby pretending not to stare too hard. In the hush that settles weird around a wreck. They all know.

I know too.

Even if I’m not ready to say it.

They slide the brace into place, and every tiny movement is lightning shoved into bone. Sweat runs cold down my back. Dirt sticks to my arms, my neck, the side of my face. I can’t get enough breath. I can’t get away from the pain. I can’t do a damn thing but lie there while strangers work over me because I’m some busted piece of equipment.

Humiliation burns almost as hot as the injury.

I hate this.