Page 30 of Flint’s Strike

After filling out forms and assuring the receptionist three times that no, she didn’t hit her head, we’re directed to a row of plastic chairs along the wall.

“Forty-five minutes for a handful of stitches is bullshit,” Parker mutters. “This place ain’t even busy.”

I sweep my gaze around the room. Four—no, five people. “Could be worse. I’ve been here on a Friday night. Packed to the gills. Not for the faint of heart.”

“You don’t have to stay.” She slumps back in the chair, stretching her left leg carefully and trying—unsuccessfully—to hide the way pain tightens her eyes.

I turn my gaze to the TV in the corner where a local chef is droning on about a recipe that has no business being made in the heat of the summer. “Maybe I want to learn all about this idjit’s pot roast secrets.”

Her delicate snort is the closest thing to a laugh I’ve heard in hours. “You have an award-winning chili recipe. I think you’d do fine with a pot roast.”

“Totally different cuts of meat.” I cross my legs at the ankles and continue to stare intently at the television.

“You know, most people would take the hint.”

“I’ll repeat my earlier statement. ‘I ain’t most people.’”

She huffs and looks away. For a moment, I think that’s the end of it.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “You’ve already done enough, Eliot.”

I turn and study her profile. The messy braid draped over her shoulder. The smudge of soot near her temple. The exhaustion she’s trying not to show.

“No.” I shake my head. “Getting you here was the bare minimum. Making sure you’re okay is the rest of the job.”

She spends thirty-five minutes in the treatment room.

I scroll a couple of news sites on my phone, check my email, and critique the chef’s pot roast technique under my breath. “He’s gonna turn that into shoe leather. Nowhere near enough salt. Trimmin’ off the fat? No chef in their right mind would do that.”

Parker finally emerges with less of a limp, a fresh bandage peeking out from the large hole in her jeans, and the look of someone who’s been given pain meds and is pretending she wasn’t.

“Five stitches,” she says. “And a lecture about tetanus.”

Laughing isn’t even close to appropriate, but I can’t help myself. “I thought it cowered in fear whenever you were around?”

“It does.” She rubs her left arm with a grimace. “But in case it gets any ideas, they gave me a booster.”

“Ready to make a break for it?”

“I can take a Lyft to the station.” Her shoulders heave with a heavy sigh. “Might as well get a head start on all the paperwork.”

“Parker, it’s after five. The mountain of forms will still be there tomorrow. I’ll drive you home.”

“I need my car.”

Oh, hell no.

“Your eyes are dilated. You ain’t drivin’ on pain meds.” I pull the key fob from my pocket and offer her my arm.

“Shit.” Her shoulders slump a little more. “You’re right.”

“Say again?” I cup a hand behind my ear, grinning. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Probably. Come on. There’s a Whataburger on the next block. I’m buyin’.”

When we get to her apartment complex, Parker’s still hopping mad I wouldn’t let her pay for a couple loaded burgers and fries. So mad, she hops out of the truck like nothing happened inside that foreman’s office. Then has to grab the door frame to stop from face planting in the parking lot.