“Iris?” I shout. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

The knee of her beautiful jade green jumpsuit is torn, and there is an angry red carpet burn on her skin. Already her ankle, twisted at an awkward angle, is beginning to swell.

“Terry, can you please help me up?” Iris’s voice is stiff with pain.

“It’s best if you don’t move, Iris. Not until the ambulance gets here.”

“I’m not going anywhere in an ambulance,” says Iris.

“But I think your ankle is broken. You’re probably concussed. And you might need stitches on your forehead, and...”

“No, I’m fine. I just need to get my breath back.”

She pushes herself into a sitting position, grips the metal bannister with her hand, and uses it to pull herself up.

“Iris, please, I don’t think you should be moving.”

She stands on her good leg. Well, her better one, at any rate. Leans against the wall.

I rummage in my handbag, find a pack of tissues, and hold one against Iris’s forehead. For a moment she lets me, leans into my hand, and closes her eyes. Then she takes the tissue from me, presses it against the cut. Nearby, onlookers stare. Iris glares at them. “Show’s over, folks,” she tells them.

They lower their eyes, look away. I pick up Iris’s handbag.

“Let’s go into the bathroom,” I say. “I can wash your cut and take a look at your ankle.”

“Can we just get out of here?” says Iris. She is sheet-white and trying not to tremble.

“You’re in shock. You need to sit down.”

“Please, Terry. I just want to go home.”

Home? She can’t be talking about the Airbnb with the sterile kitchen. She must mean home home. Ireland. Dear old Dublin, which has never seemed as dear to me as it does now.

“Can you walk?”

“I will.” And there it is. All her grit. Her determination.

Ingrained in those two words.

I hook my head under her arm, put my hand around her waist. “You sure you can manage?” I ask.

She nods, tries not to wince.

I look at Dad. He’s still talking to the woman, whose face bears the familiar expression of a captive audience seeking release. “...and I said, Where to, Mr. Sinatra? and he insisted I call him Frank, so I...”

“Dad?” I say.

Dad looks at me, then back at the woman. “I have to...” he begins, and the woman pounces into his sentence with a speedy, “Not at all, don’t worry about it,” before she moves at pace away from the scene.

Dad looks with curiosity at Iris’s matted hair, at her blood-streaked face. “Are we going home now?” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “Follow me, Dad.” There is no point asking him to help me support Iris. He won’t know how.

We make our way to the exit. Progress is slow. I try not to think of the impatient crowds behind us. Nor about the drizzle I can see through the open doors of the casino, and the lines of black cabs—all occupied—inching along the rain-slicked street.