I walked across the grey linoleum floor to the plastic chairs where my father sat. The damp wool blanket around his shoulders smelled of road salt and old motor oil.
“Clara,” he said. His voice was soft, his grammar perfectly intact despite the hour. “I am sorry to cause you this trouble.”
“It is no trouble, Dad,” I said. “Let us get you out of here.”
I reached down to help him stand, placing my hand under his left elbow. He winced and pulled away, his face tightening as he rubbed his wrist.
I reached for his other arm, pulling the sleeve of his heavy flannel shirt back to get a firmer grip.
Three distinct, dark purple marks shaped like fingers pressed deep into his pale skin. They were fresh, surrounded by a faint yellow halo of older swelling near the bone.
“What happened to your arm, Dad?” I asked.
