Page 90 of Second Alarm

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"Yes," Ty says.

We don't speak for the rest of the drive.

At ten fifty-eight we pull into the driveway at my mother’s house.

"Upstairs."

"Okay."

"With me."

"Okay."

I'm barefoot on the stairs by the time I remember I have shoes on. Ty is behind me. The door closes. My turnout boots are by the mat — I don't know when I got my turnout boots. The whole evening has a stutter in it.

"I should eat something."

"Okay."

"I'm not going to eat anything."

"Okay."

"I'm going to shower first."

"Okay."

"Come with me."

"Okay."

The bathroom is the small kind, the shower the kind with a curtain. I turn the water on and stand with my back to Ty while I take off my uniform. He stands with his back against the sink, and neither of us touches the other, and neither of us speaks. The water takes a long time to come up hot. I put my hand under it — my hand is shaking — and I say, without turning around:

"My hands are shaking."

"Because you ran medical on your brother." His voice is quiet behind me.

"That's — "

"You did a good job, Hanna."

"Okay."

"You did."

He comes around me — not to hold me, just to turn the water down a half degree. He knows my temperature. He sets it and steps back.

We don't speak for a long time.

I'm under the water. He's behind me. His hand is on my back, not moving — a warm weight between my shoulder blades. The water is coming down over both of us, and my hair is sticking to my face, and I'm crying again, not the way I cried in his bed the other morning. This is a smaller, uglier cry. This is the cry of a woman who's, in the last few hours, nearly lost her brother — who hasn't, technically, lost her brother — but who's been shown, in the specific way the highway shows people things,what losing him would look like. Who's had to put the board under him herself. Who can't unsee it.

Ty's hand doesn't leave my back.

"He's going to be okay." Near my ear, very quietly.

"I know."

"Concussion, Grade 2 — "

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