After I cry, myself dry again in Mary’s arms, she helps me off the ground. Her eyes keep running over every inch of me. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll get dressed and then we’re going to the hospital.”
“I don’t have insurance.”
“Honey, you have a bullet wound.” I smile and let out a little laugh. She helps me limp inside. The pain in my ankle and body crashes onto me now that all the adrenaline has left. “Are you okay to walk?”
“Yeah, I’m just tired. I’ve been walking for a couple hours now. On an ankle that’s probably been sprained since I was taken.” We get inside and she sits me down on the couch.
“I’m going to throw clothes on and then we’ll get you to the hospital.” I nod, and she runs into the kitchen. She comes back with a glass of
