“What the hell were you thinking?” “Can you help me first, lecture me later? I’m pretty sure I broke my arm.” She points at her limp limb. “I’m going to call for an ambulance.” I kneel beside her and fumble for my phone. “No!” “Why not?” “No need for that whole production.” I check out her arm again. “We could make everything worse by moving you.” “The thought of being in an ambulance…” Her voice shakes. Shit. In my panic, I nearly forgot about how Dahlia had a front-row seat to her dad dying in the back of an ambulance from a stroke. “Will you drive? Please.” She attempts to sit up.
