Condor picks up on the first ring.

—

I’m with my father, holding his hand, trying to comfort him, when Condor arrives, quietly and without comment. Together we move at a crawl, supporting my father between us to his car.

It doesn’t even occur to me to tell Condor that it’s okay, that I can drive my father to the emergency clinic in Dougsville, that he can go home now, and he doesn’t suggest it. In the car, I don’t say a word, although my father revives enough to rant against doctors, to claim they’re all quacks after our money. I’m too tired even to be embarrassed.

X-rays show what is likely a broken rib: a painful injury, but one that has to heal itself. The doctor writes a prescription for painkillers and tells my father sternly that he’ll have to take it easy.

In private, he asks me when my dad last had a physical. Immediately, my skin heats up.

“Not long ago,” I say, convinced that the doctor can tell that I’m lying, that I have no idea, that I’m a terrible daughter. “A year or two, maybe.”

“His blood pressure is pretty high,” he says. “And he was confused by some of my questions. Has he complained to you about headaches?”

I feel like I’m back in high school in front of a quiz I haven’t studied for. “No,” I say.

The doctor folds his mouth into a thin line. “He gets headaches.” Then: “Take him to his regular doctor for an exam. Soon.”

It’s nearly midnight when we return my dad to his house. As soon as I try to loop an arm around my dad’s waist, he says, “I got it, I got it.” Instead, he leans on Condor’s arm, and I trail behind them. Condor raises his eyes to hold mine and I read the sympathy there. I have to swallow the urge to cry.

Finally, when my dad is sleeping, after I slide behind the wheel of my car again, I find that only a few hours have passed since I first pulled into the driveway.

I follow Condor back to my rental house, guided by his taillights. We go slowly, as if in a processional. Condor pulls into his driveway, but emerges immediately to cross the browning yard to my car, getting a hand around the door to open it for me even before I’ve cut the engine. The surge of the crickets is so loud it sounds like an ocean.

“Thank you,” I say. My whole body is heavy with exhaustion. The porch light activates. I can feel his eyes searching me all over.

“All in a night’s work.” He keeps his voice light, but he isn’t smiling. “Are you going to be okay?”

I nod. I can hardly stand to be so close to him. It makes my body ache for entirely different reasons.

“You want to come over for a drink or something?” he asks me.

I don’t risk looking at him. If I do, I’ll say yes.