“You stayed with me,” she whispered.
I remembered kneeling beside her on wet gravel.
Her breathing had become shallow.
Her fingers were ice cold.
I had called emergency services, loosened her scarf, kept her talking, and followed instructions from the dispatcher while waiting for paramedics.
At one point she had grabbed my wrist and said, “Don’t let me close my eyes.”
So I hadn’t.
I talked about my daughters.
Baseball, even though I barely watched baseball.
The ridiculous parking situation at my office.
Anything that kept her responding.
“You did what anyone should have done,” I said quietly.
She pulled back.
“No.”
Her voice hardened.
“You did what everyone should have done.”
She glanced toward Gavin.
“But apparently not what everyone would have done.”
Gavin cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Halston, I think there has been a misunderstanding.”
Mrs. Halston.
The name struck me.
I looked at her again.
