“I am fine, Thomas,” I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
He took three quick steps toward my driveway, his dog trotting beside him. His eyes went straight to the napkin and the blood running down my neck.
“That looks like a deep cut,” Thomas said, his hand stopping its twirling motion. “Do you need me to drive you to the clinic? Or should I call the paramedics?”
“No, thank you,” I said, reaching for my car door. “I am going to the emergency room now. I can drive myself.”
“Margaret, you shouldn’t be driving with an injury like that,” Thomas said. He looked past me toward the front door of my house, where Daniel was now standing on the porch.
Daniel did not come down the steps. He just stood there, watching us.
“I can manage,” I said, opening the driver’s side door.
Thomas took another step closer, his face serious. He looked at Daniel, then back at me. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.
“I will make sure someone is waiting for you,” Thomas said.
I did not ask him what he meant by that. I got into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut, and locked it.
I felt the physical sensation of warm blood soaking through the linen napkin as I shifted my car into drive.
The steering wheel felt cold under my hands as I navigated the evening traffic toward Riverside Methodist Hospital. I kept one hand pressed to my forehead, the linen napkin heavy and wet against my skin.
The emergency room lobby was crowded with people waiting under the low hum of fluorescent lights. A toddler was crying near the vending machines, and a television on the wall played a local news broadcast with the sound turned off.
The intake nurse, a woman named Clara with silver hair and a quiet face, looked up from her computer when I reached the desk. She took one look at the red-soaked napkin and immediately pulled a pair of blue nitrile gloves from a box on the wall.
“Let me see what we have here,” Clara said, her voice carrying a flat, professional calm.
I peeled the linen away from my skin, the dry edges tugging slightly at the wound.
