Chapter 5: The Stairwell

The phone rang repeatedly in the pantry before it stopped.

Then it started again.

Ansel stood in front of it with his hands in his pockets and did not pick it up.

"You can answer it," I said.

"I know."

"I'm not asking you to ignore it."

"I know that too." He looked at the ceiling. "You're not asking me for anything. That's the problem."

I opened the pantry door and walked out.

I took the back stairs.

The front stairs of my grandmother's house are in full view of the dining room, and I had no plans to be seen leaving twice.

The back stairs are narrow and steep, and the runner on them has been loose since I was nine.

I knew that.

I was thinking about what he'd said, not the runner, and my foot went out from under me on the fourth step.

I caught the rail with my right hand.

My wrist took all of me and folded sideways with a pop.

"Ow," I said, to nobody.

Ansel was beside me before I'd finished the word.

He must have been right behind me the whole way, close enough to catch me, and he hadn't touched me.

"Sit," he said.

I sat on the stair.

He crouched in front of me and took my wrist in both of his hands.

It was the first time he'd held anything of mine for longer than a handshake.

"Don't," I said, "do the thing where you narrate."

"I'm just going to turn it a little. Tell me if it hurts."

"It hurts."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Good," he said. "That's a sprain, not a break. Make a fist."

I made a fist.

He turned my hand over and ran his thumb along the bones, one at a time, in a straight line.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbow.

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