Page 43 of Diesel

“You need a wheelchair?” The question felt necessary, given how much trouble she’d had getting to the car.

“Absolutely not.” Greta unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door before I could come around to help. “I can walk just fine.”

She could not, in fact, walk just fine. Each step was careful, her weight shifting to her good foot while the injured one barely touched the ground. But she made it to the automatic doors without falling, which was a relief.

The emergency room was quieter than I’d expected. A handful of people occupied the waiting room chairs—a mother with a feverish toddler if his cheeks were anything to go by, an older man cradling his arm at an odd angle, and a teenager holding a melted ice pack against his knee. Nothing that screamed immediate life-or-death emergency.

At the check-in desk, a woman in scrubs looked up from her computer. Her name tag read “Sandra,” and her expression said she’d seen everything there was to see and wasn’t impressed by any of it.

“Name?” Sandra asked, fingers poised over her keyboard.

“Greta Kowalski.” Greta spelled it out without being asked, having clearly done this a million times before.

“Date of birth?”

“April 3rd, 1947.”

Sandra smiled pleasantly at us. “What brings you in today?”

“This pushy young man thinks my foot is broken.” Greta jerked her thumb in my direction. “I think he’s overreacting, but here we are.”

Sandra’s gaze shifted to me then back to Greta. “Can you describe your symptoms?”

“My foot got stuck in my friend’s porch yesterday. There’s a little swelling. Some bruising. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“Can you put weight on it?” Sandra asked, her fingers clacking over the keyboard.

Greta paused. “Some,” she finally said.

“Have you taken anything for the pain?”

“Couple of aspirin this morning.”

Sandra typed all of this into her computer faster than I ever would. I typed with one finger. It would’ve taken me an hour to fill out the form. “Insurance card?”

Greta dug through her oversized orange purse, producing a card she handed over. Sandra scanned it, handed it back, then printed out several forms on a clipboard.

“Have a seat and fill these out. Someone will call you back shortly.” She was already turning away, reaching for her water bottle.

“How shortly?” I asked, knowing you could sit in an ER for hours before you were called back.

“Depends on how busy we get. Right now, probably thirty to forty-five minutes.”

That wasn’t so bad.

Taking the clipboard, Greta headed for the nearest empty chair. I followed. She lowered herself with a grunt, telling me her foot hurt more than she was letting on. The chair creaked under her weight, and she immediately started filling out the forms with aggressive pen strokes.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Pulling it out, I saw Diesel’s name on the screen and stepped a few feet away before answering.

“Hey.”

“How is she?” he asked. His background was much quieter now. He must’ve stepped away from the garage.

“Her ankle is swollen, bruised purple, and she’s pretending it’s no big deal.” My free hand rubbed at my face, exhaustion settling in now that the adrenaline had worn off. “We’re at St. Mary’s, waiting to be seen.”

“Want me to come sit with you?”

I’d been so worried that my emotions were all over the place. Combined with the adrenaline dump, I nearly cried at the simple offer. I wanted Diesel here, but didn’t want him spending his Sunday in an emergency room.