The blue-tinged scrape on Carolyn’s knee was clogged with gray carpet fibers from Nancy’s living room rug. I dipped a cotton ball into the antiseptic, my hand steady only because I was focusing on the small yellow plastic bottle.
“Hold her other leg, Marilyn,” I whispered.
Marilyn jiggled her car keys in her apron pocket before setting them on the end table, then reached out to steady Carolyn’s ankle. The green corduroy couch, which Marilyn had bought second-hand for four hundred dollars, smelled of dried lavender and old newspapers.
“She didn’t mean to fall,” Carolyn whispered, her small fingers curling tightly around the ears of Barnaby, her grey stuffed bunny.
“I know, baby,” I said, dabbing the skin. “It was just an accident.”
My hand rose to touch my collarbone, feeling the edge of my collar. I looked up at Marilyn, whose face was tight under the floor lamp.
“Look, Marilyn, I cannot go back there tonight,” I said.
