With and Without You by Austin Siegemund-Broka & Emily Wibberley

Author:Austin Siegemund-Broka & Emily Wibberley [Siegemund-Broka, Austin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2022-04-19T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Eight

I’M STUNNED AT FIRST, feeling nothing when I land. I know I fell hard and pain is coming, though. I roll over, conscious of Patrick running down the hill where I stumbled. Embarrassment works its way into my disorientation. I probably look ridiculous splayed out in the dirt. Not to mention the way I probably looked falling, like one of those YouTube videos you feel bad for laughing at.

“Oh my god.” Patrick reaches my side. “Are you okay?”

I rise shakily into a sitting position, feeling out my feet, my legs, my back. There are scrapes on my palms and probably my knees, although I managed not to rip holes in my leggings. “I think so,” I say.

“What happened?” Patrick asks. He kneels at my side, worry in his eyes.

“My foot slipped on the loose rocks,” I admit, my cheeks heating out of a combination of chagrin and adrenaline from my fall.

He glances down, his eyes narrowing. “Siena!” he says a little harshly. “Your shoes have practically no treads. You told me you had appropriate footwear.” When his eyes return to me, I’m surprised to find them accusatory.

“I thought I did! It’s not like I’ve fallen down a mountain in these shoes before,” I offer with a half smile.

“Not funny,” he says stonily. “We didn’t have to do this if you didn’t have the right gear.”

“I wanted to do this,” I reply more firmly, flattening the waver in my voice. “It was our one chance to do this before I go back to Phoenix for who knows how long.”

Patrick still looks displeased. “Let me see your hand.”

I surrender my left hand, knowing it’s the one he means. While it’s bleeding more freely now, the blood dampening the dirt on my palm in gunky black streaks, it’s just a scrape. However, when Patrick gently takes my wrist, I gasp. All of a sudden, I’m aware of pain stabbing out from within my wrist, white fire under my skin. I withdraw from him instantly, jerking my hand close to my chest.

Concern shadows over Patrick’s face. “Was it me? I barely touched it.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “It just hurts, like, constantly.”

He studies my wrist, his demeanor calm yet focused. “It looks swollen,” he observes. I follow his eyeline. He’s right, my entire wrist is puffy and pink. For the first time since I fell, real worry knots in me. Whatever happened to my wrist when I landed, it’s probably not good.

Patrick’s sudden movement distracts me from the new pain. Shrugging off his backpack, he unzips the front pouch and pulls out our water bottles, which he places on the ground. Then he takes out a forest-green pouch I don’t recognize. I peer in when he zips it open to reveal first aid supplies. Past the throbbing ache in my arm, I smile a little. Of course ever-responsible Patrick has an entire first aid kit with him wherever he hikes.

“Elevate your wrist,” he orders me with controlled urgency, “and take one of these.”

He shakes an Advil into my uninjured hand, then passes me my water bottle.

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