The EMT nods, then holds out the neck brace. He gingerly slides it around Jane’s neck, the rubber of his gloves tugging against my skin as they pass over my thighs.

“Sorry,” he mutters, making an effort to keep his face out of my décolletage, then snaps the collar into place. “You can release the pressure. We’ll get back on it once we get him on the stretcher. As soon as—” He nods to where EMT Two works with Darcy to get Charles off Jane. Charles is alert enough to contribute, and is escorted past the downed frame and away from the crowd. A moment later, the second EMT joins us.

“Ready?” the EMT beside me asks Jane, who gives him a thumbs-up.

I lift my fingers, relieved the handkerchief adheres to the wound so I don’t have to see it again. The other EMT moves to Jane’s feet, and they transition him to the gurney.

I get to my feet slowly, catching sight of the dried blood high on my bare leg and the grim state of my hands. Good lord, no wonder Charles fainted. My palms are coated, and there are dark red lines where Jane’s blood leaked between my fingers.

“Bennet?” Jane asks, his voice timid.

“Right here, hon.” I move to the gurney, taking his hand. He gives me a tight smile. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes, and I wipe them away with the base of my palm.

The EMT who helped with Charles approaches us. “Are you . . . family?”

“Roommates.”

“Company policy only allows family to ride along. We’re taking him to Beth Israel.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” I say. “Jane?”

Jane squeezes my hand. “X-rays and stitches and a check for a concussion.” He sighs, like the procedure is an inconvenience now that the shock has worn off. I guess that’s an advantage of growing up in a family of folks in emergency medicine: even head trauma loses its mystique. “Please check on Charles, though?”

Jane’s loaded into the ambulance, and the doors close as he waves goodbye. A police officer I didn’t see arrive raps twice on the back of the ambulance, and the vehicle takes off, sirens blaring.

The cop approaches me, asking for my information, and we sidestep another cop, who tapes off the scene. I briefly describe what I witnessed. As the officer jots it down on her notepad, I survey my clothing for splatter. The dark, patterned fabric conceals anything on my dress, but the blood on my hands has dried, and the tight feeling makes my stomach lurch. I turn up my palms. My hands are shaking.

“May I?”

I start at the voice and find the officer gone, replaced by Darcy, who holds out a—I cock my head—a wet-nap?