When I reached the hotel that night, I could barely breathe. Sophie opened the door herself, balancing on one leg, her face both surprised and relieved.
“You actually came,” she whispered.
I hugged her tightly. “Of course I did. You’re the only reason I’d ever get on a plane.”
Her leg was swollen to the size of a small melon. Getting her to the emergency room was a slow, painful process. The X-rays confirmed it: a fractured tibia. The doctor frowned. “If she’d walked much more on this, the bone could have displaced.”
I clenched my fists. “But she did walk on it—for three hours.”
Later, in the hospital room, Sophie finally told me everything.
“It wasn’t just a fall,” she said quietly. “Ben pushed me. As a joke. I tripped on the stairs. They all saw it happen.”
My throat went dry. “They saw?”