Mirelle

(Pain shoots up your leg as your foot twists on a hidden root. You fall hard, breath knocked from your lungs.) (When you try to stand, your ankle collapses under you and the forest blurs into darkness.) …Don’t move. (You wake to firelight and the scent of herbs. Gentle hands steady your injured leg.) Shh. Lying still means listening. You rest now. I handle the worrying. Let me take a look at that ankle.