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Authors: Eliza Lentzski
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above hurt her eyes. EMTs rushed through the Emergency Room doors with someone laid out on a gurney. From where she sat, she couldn’t make out the extent of the person’s injuries. Doctors and nurses flooded to the scene yelling out codes from a secret language that she didn’t recognize.
She felt a hand at her elbow. “At least you’re not that guy,” Reagan said in a quiet voice for only Allison to hear.
“But if I was, I’d actually get some attention,” Allison scowled, equally quiet.
“Let me see it again,” R eagan coaxed.
Allison pulled the makeshift compress away from the back of her neck. Reagan brushed Allison’s long ponytail to the side. A jagged red line marred her porcelain skin. The bleeding had stopped, but the gash looked deep and would probably require stitches.
“I can’t believe you hit a rock,” Reagan murmured. Her fingertips were warm from being inside gloves, and Allison visibly shuddered at the tentative, gentle touch. Reagan bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”
Allison released a shaky breath. “No,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s okay. I’ve endured worse.” Her eyes snapped shut when Reagan’s fingers slid down the side of her neck.
“Have you ever had stitches before?”
Allison nodded, opening her eyes now that the wave of what she hoped was just nausea had passed. “Once. My cousin hit me in the head with a golf club when I was five.” She was constantly getting bumped and bruised when she was young. Gracefulness had come late, despite the ballet and gymnastics and cheerleading.
Reagan ’s eyes bulged. “What?”
Allison shrugged. “It sounds worse than it actually was. I got cut, they stitched me up, good as new.” She brushed her thin bangs away from her forehead. “That’s what this scar is from.”
Reagan inspected the tight white line, even whiter than Allison’s already pale skin, just above her left eyebrow. Without asking permission, she ran her thumb along the slight indent. “So that’s what’s wrong with you.”
Allison pulled away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can blame your insanity on getting hit in the head when you were young,” Reagan responded cheekily.
Allison turned the conversation back to Reagan. She knew she loved to talk about herself. In high school, it seemed to be her favorite topic. “Do you have any scars?”
“None that are visible,” Reagan quipped. She smiled slyly.
Allison rolled her eyes. “You are an incredible dork.”
“Oh, look,” Reagan sing-songed. “I think a new scar is forming right now.”
“ Allison Hoge?” a nurse with a clipboard announced.
At her name, Allison stood up a little too quickly. Her knees wobbled when the blood rushed to her head.
Reagan shot to her feet and steadied her. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
“I’m fine,” Allison insisted. She felt Reagan’s hand at her waist. It felt warm. Had she always been this touchy? She couldn’t remember.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” Reagan had started to stroke innocently near her hipbone. It was distracting.
Allison swallowed down an emotion she wasn’t prepared to identify. “No. I’ll be fine.”
+++++
The sky was a dark purple. Reagan looked up into the night sky and breathed out, watching her breath smoke in front of her face. Her lungs burned from the late winter chill, but she didn’t mind. It was a familiar feeling, reassuring, and it reminded her of home.
The railr oad platform creaked beneath Reagan’s feet. There was something quant about the Providence train stop, like it had been cut out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Tall, spindly trees were painted with tiny white lights, leftover from the winter holiday. It was a far cry from the chaos of Grand Central Station to which she’d become accustomed. A light snow had begun to fall on their
She felt a hand at her elbow. “At least you’re not that guy,” Reagan said in a quiet voice for only Allison to hear.
“But if I was, I’d actually get some attention,” Allison scowled, equally quiet.
“Let me see it again,” R eagan coaxed.
Allison pulled the makeshift compress away from the back of her neck. Reagan brushed Allison’s long ponytail to the side. A jagged red line marred her porcelain skin. The bleeding had stopped, but the gash looked deep and would probably require stitches.
“I can’t believe you hit a rock,” Reagan murmured. Her fingertips were warm from being inside gloves, and Allison visibly shuddered at the tentative, gentle touch. Reagan bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”
Allison released a shaky breath. “No,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s okay. I’ve endured worse.” Her eyes snapped shut when Reagan’s fingers slid down the side of her neck.
“Have you ever had stitches before?”
Allison nodded, opening her eyes now that the wave of what she hoped was just nausea had passed. “Once. My cousin hit me in the head with a golf club when I was five.” She was constantly getting bumped and bruised when she was young. Gracefulness had come late, despite the ballet and gymnastics and cheerleading.
Reagan ’s eyes bulged. “What?”
Allison shrugged. “It sounds worse than it actually was. I got cut, they stitched me up, good as new.” She brushed her thin bangs away from her forehead. “That’s what this scar is from.”
Reagan inspected the tight white line, even whiter than Allison’s already pale skin, just above her left eyebrow. Without asking permission, she ran her thumb along the slight indent. “So that’s what’s wrong with you.”
Allison pulled away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can blame your insanity on getting hit in the head when you were young,” Reagan responded cheekily.
Allison turned the conversation back to Reagan. She knew she loved to talk about herself. In high school, it seemed to be her favorite topic. “Do you have any scars?”
“None that are visible,” Reagan quipped. She smiled slyly.
Allison rolled her eyes. “You are an incredible dork.”
“Oh, look,” Reagan sing-songed. “I think a new scar is forming right now.”
“ Allison Hoge?” a nurse with a clipboard announced.
At her name, Allison stood up a little too quickly. Her knees wobbled when the blood rushed to her head.
Reagan shot to her feet and steadied her. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
“I’m fine,” Allison insisted. She felt Reagan’s hand at her waist. It felt warm. Had she always been this touchy? She couldn’t remember.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” Reagan had started to stroke innocently near her hipbone. It was distracting.
Allison swallowed down an emotion she wasn’t prepared to identify. “No. I’ll be fine.”
+++++
The sky was a dark purple. Reagan looked up into the night sky and breathed out, watching her breath smoke in front of her face. Her lungs burned from the late winter chill, but she didn’t mind. It was a familiar feeling, reassuring, and it reminded her of home.
The railr oad platform creaked beneath Reagan’s feet. There was something quant about the Providence train stop, like it had been cut out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Tall, spindly trees were painted with tiny white lights, leftover from the winter holiday. It was a far cry from the chaos of Grand Central Station to which she’d become accustomed. A light snow had begun to fall on their
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