Daniel lifted my shoulders, his grip digging into my skin.
My head fell back, and the silver beaded bracelet Madison had made for me dragged against the rough stucco of the house wall as he carried me through the back entryway.
“The table,” Patricia said, her voice receding toward the kitchen. “Daniel, you left a mark on the glass.”
“Get the keys, Mother,” he said.
He laid me down on the hallway bench, the wood hard against my lower back.
My ribs burned with a sharp, deep heat every time I tried to draw a breath.
Patricia stood by the front door, a linen dish towel in her hand, rubbing at a small smudge on the glass console table with quick, hard circles.
“Did you call them?” I whispered, looking up at her graying hair, pinned back in its usual neat bun.
She did not look at me, her fingers moving rhythmically over the silver beads in her left hand.
“I called the office,” Patricia said, her eyes fixed on the glass. “I spoke to your partner’s secretary. I told her you would be late.”
“The office?” I asked, but the word caught in my chest.
“We are going to the hospital,” Daniel said, coming back down the hall with his leather car keys in his hand.
He pulled me up by my good arm, forcing me to stand.
“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice returning to that flat, professional tone he used when a contract went wrong.
