“Are you… hurt?” I asked, Jimi still whimpering in my arms.

“It… hurts a lot,” she said, wincing as she shifted her leg.

I hurried to the front desk and told the receptionist, “The woman who just came out—she got hurt outside. Looks like a sprained ankle.”

The receptionist smirked. “You a doctor?”

“No.”

“But you’re good at diagnosing.”

I slammed my hand on the counter, drawing eyes from nearby. “Get a damn doctor and help her. You can ignore me and my son, but ...