“Check her head,” I say through gritted teeth. “And slow the fuck down.” The men go back to work, and my gaze finds Sunday’s. The confusion in her eyes isn’t lost on me. I’m confused as well. She’s fine; she’s coherent. The cut isn’t bad; it won’t require stitches. Everything is fine. Yet, my heart is hammering in my chest, I can’t hear anything besides an annoying whine, and if I don’t drive my fist into a wall, I may hit the asshole who’s now dipping his stethoscope too far down Sunday’s tank top.
