The old man hands me his phone. I call my father, confess immediately that I’ve wrecked the car. In a tight voice he only says, “I’m coming.” I give the stranger his phone and move to the curb where I stand like I’m awaiting my sentence, but the old man goes to his car and returns with a blanket. “It’s cold,” he explains. “You’re in shock, and you’re bleeding.” I feel embarrassed, so I demur, but he unfolds it anyway. The blanket is clean and brown. And when he wraps it around my shoulders, he assures me, “it’ll be okay.”
Emily Hall's prose has appeared, or is forthcoming, in places such as Portland Review, Passages North, 100 Word Story, Necessary Fiction, and Cherry Tree. Bluesky: @emhall47.bsky.social