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The ambulance is rolling and the sirens going. The female medic is still taking notes, flipping her hand over to write on the other side of her glove when Michael eases my sock off.
“Holy fucking shit!” he says, which is pretty much the same words I would use to describe it. I lift my head to look.
“That’s nothing,” I tell him. “You should’ve seen it before I took the bad parts off.”
“The bad parts?”
“Yeah,” I say, reaching for the bag with what’s left of my foot inside. “These bits.”
I lift it for him to see, and he covers his mouth and looks away real quick, taking a minute to compose himself. Then he lifts my heel gently, turning my foot to see the damage from all angles.
“You took this off?” Michael asks.
“Yeah,” I say, lying my head down as the spots threaten again.
“With what?”
“A big chunk of flint.” I consider reaching into my pocket to share the sliver I kept with me but decide against it because I don’t want it taken away from me.
He whistles low between his teeth and sets my leg back down. “Nice work.”
“Thank you,” I say, weirdly pleased by the compliment.
“Can you tell me your name?” the other medic asks.
“Ashley,” I tell her.
“Okay, Ashley,” she says. “I’m Barbara. I’m going to start an IV to keep you hydrated, all right? It’s going to make your arm a little cold.” She says it apologetically, like it’s the worst possible end to my day. There’s a pinch and she’s done, a needle tucked into the crook of my arm.
“Do you know what day it is?” Barbara asks, and I realize she’s trying to decide if I hit my head at some point or not. I definitely did, and I certainly don’t know what day it is, but that has nothing to do with having a concussion.
“No,” I say.
“Who is the president?” Michael asks, but only gets a snort out of me in response. They exchange a glance, like maybe that answer is kind of common.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Barbara tries, like she’s tossing me an easy one, something I should be able to explain.
“I was lost,” I say, the first time I’ve spoken the word. My voice cracks around it, either because I’m too proud to admit it or because it’s so damn terrifying, even now that I’m safe. Because I knew, every time I left my house for the woods, that it could kill me. I just never believed it would try.
“The world is not tame,” I tell Barbara, and she nods like maybe she gets it as she wraps a blood-pressure cuff around my arm, then swaps it out for a different one. Judging by the Dora the Explorer sticker on the band I’m guessing it’s the one they use on kids, my arm too small for the one made for adults.
“How’d you manage?” Michael asks, eyes still on my foot.
“There was no one else to do it,” I tell him. “So I had to.”
“No, I mean, like, overall,” he says. “Everything.”
I only shrug, because the answer is the same.
In the hospital I’m asked a lot of questions I don’t know the answers to.
Like who my family doctor is, or if I’ve had all my immunizations. I tell them we don’t usually go to the doctor unless we’re bleeding out—we mostly use duct tape when injured and that I assume I have all my shots. Those don’t seem to be the answers they were looking for because they give me a whole bunch more shots, including one for tetanus even though I tell them I’m pretty sure I’m up-to-date on that because lockjaw is something Dad takes seriously.
Everything is bright here, and overwhelmingly clean. Everyone has smiles on their faces that get bigger when they see me, like I’m the sun peeking out from behind a cloud they never thought would pass. I know I’m like some miracle baby, the girl who was lost and now is found.
The Ashley from before would have been irritated at being wheeled everywhere, insisted on standing and walking because being carted around looks like weakness. But I know exactly how strong I am, and there is beauty in moving smoothly without doing a thing. I slide past doorways and signs with arrows at the end of every hall, kiosks with maps and a star that reads, YOU ARE HERE, popping up every now and then.
I find it reassuring to know exactly where I am.
