“The good news: Nothing’s broken. You’re incredibly lucky, Mr. Whittaker.”
Abbey let go of the breath she’d been holding since the doctor, a studious-looking black man in wire-framed glasses, came back to their little curtained-off exam room. That was one prayer answered.
“The bad news: You’ve rolled your ankle badly. The inflammation is pretty nasty, and you’ll be unstable on your feet for a while. You’re going to need to keep off it. Elevation, ice, crutches. Do you have someone who can stay with you to help out?”
“I live with him. I’ll be there,” Abbey interjected.
“There’s no need for that. You’ve got work.”
“Mr. Whittaker, you might not be so lucky with another fall,” Dr. Johnson warned. “And at your age and condition, a broken hip or a head injury could be—well, let’s not go the
