But had I really felt it when he’d turned and grabbed me by the wrist? When he’d tucked my body close to his, when he’d put an arm around my shoulders and started to shove his way through the crowd of angry, sloppy patrons? Had I really seen it right, when one of those patrons threw a lazy, misdirected punch in our direction? Had I truly heard Reid—quite late Reid!—mutter a quiet, frustrated “Fuck” through clenched teeth before he’d moved me out of the way? Had that been real, him ducking that punch, him pulling back his arm and making a fist as the guy started coming again?

Could I actually have felt the force of that ham-fisted, sloppy-drunk guy thudding to the ground at my feet?

“What about his hand?” I say now, in the firm, no-nonsense voice I seem to have had since we walked in here, and the truth is, I’m still surprised to hear it. A literal fight, and I feel stronger than I have in ages. In the lobby my hand had been rock-steady as I’d filled out Reid’s paperwork, quietly but quickly asking him questions that he would answer stiffly, his voice muffled from the fresh, icy-cold compress the check-in nurse gave him.

“I’m okay, Meg,” Reid says, his voice low and soothing. For a split second some of my newfound strength falters. I like you so much, Meg, he’d said, but he’s been quiet ever since, and if I look at him now—if I see that bruised, bloody brow, the one he got for me—I may not be able to stay focused on the most important thing, which is making sure he’s okay.

I keep my eyes on the doctor, waiting for her answer.

“In this case, the patient and I agree. His hand looks fine.” She directs her next comment to him. “Someone must’ve taught you to make the right kind of fist.”

Reid gives a bored shrug worthy of pastel-shirt guy. This slight air of sullenness is the only lingering symptom of his former inebriation. He has looked stone-cold sober from the moment that man hit his stool, though the energy bar I forced him to eat (another gem from my bag) and the ten tiny cups of water I made him drink out in the lobby probably helped.

“I’m going to grab an NP who’s got a steadier hand than me to stitch you up, okay?” Then she turns to me again, speaking as though Reid isn’t in the room. “Keep an eye on him tonight. If he seems disoriented, or has light sensitivity, or complains of nausea, give us a call.”