"Well," he said crisply.
"so long as you're okay. I'm sure you'll want to go and—"
"Okay?" Dana gave him an incredulous look.
"We need to get her to the couch so she can straighten that out."
"Oh no," I protested, seeing Bastien's murderous expression.
"I . . . I'm fine . . . really . . ."
But there was no arguing with Dana. She supported me under one arm, and he took the other. I hobbled over to the couch, putting my weight only on the right foot.
Once I was stretched out, she pushed my jeans up over my calf and felt the ankle with cautious, expert precision, carefully examining each inch.
I appreciated her solicitous concern and apparent first-aid know-how, but the thought of this wretched woman touching my leg repulsed me. Besides, what I really wanted were those cookies. Fuck my ankle.
"It doesn't feel broken," she finally decided.
"Probably just a sprain, lucky for you. We should ice it."
