“Lizzie?”

She realized she’d zoned out of the conversation while her parents were play-fighting. Jules was looking at her, concerned.

“Sorry, my head hurts, but I’m okay.”

She gave a loose synopsis of the situation, about the old man and the two gunmen. She minimized how close she came to dying from the gun pointed at her face, brains splattered against the tiles.

“Honey, you must have been so scared. I’m glad you’re alright,” her mom said.

“That was really brave, Lizzie, but really stupid.” She could hear both pride and worry in her dad’s voice.

“You’d have done the same thing.”

“Oh, I probably would have,” he said, “but I have never claimed to be smart. You could have been hurt or worse, honey. Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know; I just thought I had to,” Elizabeth spoke honestly, but it rang like a lie. She couldn’t explain why she did it. It just felt right, even if it almost got her killed.

“I’m buying tickets right now. We’ll be up to see you tomorrow,” her dad said.

“Don’t do that. Please, I’m fine,” Elizabeth protested.

Her pleas fell on deaf ears.

“We’ll catch an eight am flight and be there by around seven or eight pm,” Dad went on. Her head was hurting.

Her mom chimmed in. “I can call out of work for the next week. We’ll stay at the Liberty again, just like last time.”

The thought of them coming up to parent her and lecture her about making stupid decisions made her head hurt even worse. She was pretty sure her eye was twitching.

“Well, the doctors said she should have limited stimulus for the next week or so. Maybe it’d be better if you came down then, so Liz doesn’t get overworked,” Jules piped up. Elizabeth could tell that she’d noticed her discomfort and stress. She mouthed ‘thank you’ to her. Jules winked in response.

“I’d rather come now,” her dad started before her mom cut him off.

“That sounds like a good idea, Jules. Think you can take care of her in the meantime?”

Jules laughed. “I think she is way stronger than needing me to take care of her, Mrs. Brown, but I can help her with whatever she needs.”

Elizabeth got a funny feeling in her stomach when she said that. She wasn’t sure if it was compassion or a wave of nausea from the concussion.

Her parents agreed to come up the following week, and Jules took them to go talk to the doctor, which left Elizabeth alone for a bit. She promptly fell asleep.

When she woke up, an hour or so later, Jules sat with her for a little while. She said the doctor left instructions not to look at screens for long periods of time for the next week. She should expect to be extra sensitive to light and loud noises.

“No exercising, watching TV, going to classes, reading, or writing.”

She liked the sound of the last part, but no exercise was going to be miserable.

The cut on her cheek would likely scar because of how severe it was. As she talked about the wound, she became increasingly aware of how it itched. She’d also need to come in again to get the stitches removed.

An ancient doctor came in to check on them as the orderly served breakfast. He told them that she’d be free to go by noon if Elizabeth was able to maintain her balance and keep some food down.

They talked in the dark for the next few hours. Jules read her posts she saw on her Instagram page and described the pictures, but she wasn’t particularly good at it. Elizabeth liked company, though, especially Jules’s, so she didn’t complain.

Elizabeth’s thoughts gathered as Jules scrolled. “In the diner, you mouthed ‘don’t’ to me. How’d you know I was going to do something?” she asked.

“You had the look your eye from when you were going to foul on the court.”

Something about being known so deeply made Elizabeth blush. It was a vulnerable feeling. Jules didn’t seem to notice and continued describing an Insta post as “annoying,” like that was supposed to help Elizabeth visualize it.

Near eleven, a nurse came in. He had short black hair, spiked in the center like it was 2004. He was probably in his mid to late thirties, with a gruff face.

“Excuse me, Ms. Brown; you have someone asking if they can come to visit,” the nurse said. “A Mr. James O’Donnell? He says you saved his life last night.”

Elizabeth bolted upright. He described the old man to a T.

“Let him in, that’s my grandfather.”

The nurse disappeared out the door again.

“Are you sure you’re up for that?” Jules asked. Elizabeth shot down the question with a glare.

“I have to thank him. The least that I can do is do it in person. It won’t be that straining; I doubt he’ll even want to stay to talk.”

She waited for five or so minutes, and the nurse returned. The old man walked in with a smile on his face and kindness behind his eyes she hadn’t seen in the diner. He had more smile lines than she had noticed before; they made him look older. His suit was immaculate as it had been, except for a dark brown stain on the right lapel, dried blood. A small dot he probably hadn’t noticed. The ring was still on his right hand, faintly glowing.

“Elizabeth Brown, a pleasure to properly meet you,” he said.

Editor: Shannon Hensley