Page 45 of Diesel

“Just a little.” But he reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together. The contact was exactly what I’d needed.

Greta watched our exchange with undisguised glee. “You two are adorable. Makes me want to vomit rainbows.”

“Please don’t,” I said. “We’re already in the ER. Let’s not add to the workload.”

She cackled, the sound drawing looks from several other people in the waiting room. Diesel’s thumb traced patterns on the back of my hand, the repetitive motion calming my frazzled mind.

“So what’s the verdict?” Diesel asked, nodding toward Greta’s elevated foot.

“We haven’t seen a doctor yet. Still waiting on someone to call her back.”

“It’s fine,” Greta interjected. “Just a little swelling. This one dragged me here against my will.”

“For good reason.” My free hand gestured at her ankle, which had somehow managed to swell even more in the last thirty minutes. “That’s not fine.”

“It’s character building.” Her gaze wandered toward the construction worker who was watching the mounted television.

“Injuries don’t build character. They build medical bills.” My words landed on deaf ears.

Diesel quietly laughed, his arm pressed against mine. Having him here made everything feel less overwhelming. The waiting room seemed less sterile. The fluorescent lights less harsh. Even Greta’s stubbornness felt more manageable.

“Greta Kowalski?” A nurse appeared in the doorway to the treatment area, clipboard in hand. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her scrubs had cartoon cats all over them.

“That’s me.” Greta started to stand then paused. “Can my boys come back with me?”

The nurse glanced at Diesel and me then shrugged. “Sure. Family’s allowed.”

We weren’t family. Not by blood, anyway. But the word settled something in my stomach that had been unsettled since Edith’s call this morning. Family was what you made it. Greta had decided we were hers, and that was good enough.

Following the nurse through the double doors, we entered a maze of hallways and curtained rooms. The smell hit immediately—antiseptic and something underneath it that might’ve been fear or pain or both. Machines beeped in various rooms. Someone coughed. A doctor’s voice drifted from behind one of the curtains, explaining something about medication dosages.

The nurse led us to a room at the end of the hall, gesturing for Greta to sit on the examination table. Paper crinkled as she hoisted herself up, swinging her legs with effort.

“Doctor will be in shortly.” The nurse made a note on her clipboard. “In the meantime, let’s get your vitals.”

Blood pressure cuff. Temperature. Oxygen levels. The nurse worked through everything with practiced efficiency, recording numbers that meant nothing to me but seemed to satisfy her.

“All good,” she announced after the cuff deflated with a hiss. “Doctor Mitchell will be right with you.”

She disappeared through the curtain, leaving the three of us in the small room. Greta sat on the examination table, legs dangling. Diesel leaned against the wall, arms crossed. My spot was the plastic chair in the corner, the kind that had probably been uncomfortable since the hospital opened.

“This is ridiculous,” Greta muttered. “All this fuss over a bruised foot.”

“Let the doctor decide that,” I said.

“The doctor’s going to tell me to ice it and take some ibuprofen. Then we’ll have wasted an entire Sunday.”

“Or the doctor will tell you it’s broken and you need a cast. Then we’ll have caught it before it got worse.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but the curtain swept aside and a man in a white coat entered. Doctor Mitchell, according to his name tag. Fifties, graying at the temples, with the kind of face that had seen too many emergencies to be shocked by anything.

“Mrs. Kowalski.” He glanced at the chart in his hands. “Sounds like you had an accident with a porch?”

“My foot got stuck. I pulled it out. End of story.”

“Let’s take a look.” He rolled a stool over to the examination table and sat, reaching for her injured foot with gentle hands. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

His fingers prodded the swollen ankle, pressing in various spots while Greta tried to maintain her “it’s fine” expression. But I caught the winces. The way her jaw tightened when he touched certain areas. The slight hiss of breath between her teeth.