It was the first time I had ever said that word to her.
She reached toward me, then stopped when distant sirens became audible somewhere beyond the houses.
The color drained from her face.
“What did you do?”
Grandma answered for me.
“She asked for help.”
Karen opened the door wider.
“Get inside. Now.”
I did not move.
Grandma spoke calmly.
“Sweetheart, if the door is open and you can walk inside without passing close to Karen, go into the warm room and stay where you can be seen. Do not argue. Help is almost there.”
I stepped inside.
My legs felt strange and stiff. The warm floor hurt my bare feet.
Karen shut the balcony door and immediately began moving through the room, picking up my spilled cup, wiping the last purple stain from the table, straightening objects that did not need straightening.
“You were only out there for a minute,” she said.
I looked at the wall clock.
I did not know how long it had been. At seven, a minute and forever could feel the same.
Someone pounded on the front door.
Karen whispered, “Do not say anything stupid.”
Grandma heard her.
“You tell the truth,” she said through the phone. “Only the truth.”
Two police officers and a paramedic came inside. One officer spoke to Karen near the entryway. The other knelt in front of me.
“Are you cold?”
I nodded.
The paramedic wrapped a silver emergency blanket around my shoulders and checked my fingers. They asked how long I had been outside, whether I had fallen, whether I had trouble breathing.
I answered as best I could.
Karen stood across the room saying it had been a brief discipline break and that I had become dramatic because I missed my mother.
The officer looked at the balcony, then at my thin pajamas.
“What temperature is it outside?” he asked his partner.
The partner checked.
