"Broken?"
The word stopped him cold.
I looked down at my left arm, still resting limply against my stomach. The angle was wrong.
"I think so," he said. His voice had gone quiet again. "The radius, probably. Maybe the ulna too. We won't know until the imaging."
"I need to get dressed."
"Elara—"
"I'm not going to the hospital in a bathrobe." I tried to push myself up, "My clothes are in the guest room. The gray sweater. The black pants I wore to—"
"You can't dress yourself."
"I can—"
"Your arm is broken." He said it slowly, like I was a child who needed things explained in small words. "You have one functioning hand. "
"Then I'll manage."
"You're not managing anything." He was already moving toward the door. "Stay there. Don't move. I'll get your clothes."
"I don't need your hel
