Page 89 of None Of Your Business

Goddammit, where are you, Rowan?

My pacing slows as a soft cry comes from the hood of my car. Brenda, one of the neighborhood strays, has hopped onto the warm engine block. She headbutts my wrist, leaving a streak of white fur on my sleeve.

“You’re waiting for her too, huh?”

I call Rowan again, but it goes straight to voicemail.

I’m already reaching for the car door, ready to drive down every street between here and Westbrook, when I hear the slow drag of footsteps on the sidewalk.

Rowan comes around the corner, deathly pale.

Fuck.

I cross the lawn in three long strides, catching her just as her knees give out. “I’ve got you.”

Her skin is cold to the touch.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she mumbles into my chest. “I was on my way home.”

“You are home.”

“Oh.”

“Excellent awareness.”

She makes a weak sound that might be a laugh.

At least she can still find me irritating.

I steer her inside and straight to the couch. Then I pour a large glass of water and drop in an electrolyte tablet.

By the time I get back, she’s folded herself into the corner of the couch with her eyes closed.

“Drink this.”

She opens one eye.

I place the glass in her hands and wait until she takes several slow sips, then crouch in front of her.

“Did you fall?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Her eyes open properly this time. “Yes, Dad.”

I ignore that and start unlacing her boots.

“What are you doing?”

“Assessing the damage caused by your excellent decision-making.”

I slide off the first boot, then the second, before pressing two fingers against her foot to check her pulse and assess the swelling radiating up her leg.

“How far did you walk?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers.