“That wasn’t quite what I expected for a Friday night” grumbles Penelope, snorting with the effort of sustaining the weight of the unknown man among us.

“If it serves as a consolation” I grumble in response to the strong snap on my shoulders, where the man’s arm rests “I would have preferred to suffer through a sad episode of House of the Dragon with a generous tub of ice cream than to try to save a stranger’s life.”

Pulling a strained breath, I look toward the hospital’s lit facade, reminded that there had been no breeze between us when Penelope pulled up at the curb by the lingerie shop to save us ten minutes earlier.

The man, passed out with his head lolled to one side, remains cold and inert. My friend helps me get him into her car, and I’m grateful she doesn’t complain about all the blood soaking his clothes. During the drive, I have to tell every detail of this terrible night, including the episode with Dean.

She doesn’t seem that surprised by my lamentations, merely arching an eyebrow when I mention the end of my perfect marriage, and focusing much more on the stranger and how I’m holding up.

“Nothing a dose of Jack Daniels won’t fix” I reply dryly, even though remorse sits heavy in my chest.

I’m sure that if she drove full speed to the hospital I wasn’t taking up all her attention, my head would now be throbbing from listening to her sermons. Not that my friend usually acts like a mother, but seeing me risk my neck to save a stranger, especially after almost losing my own life, isn’t something she greets warmly.

There’s a fine line between being supportive and risking your neck for others. Maybe it makes me selfish now to regret dragging the only person I trust into a situation whose risks we don’t know.

Penelope stumbles on the pavement and growls softly, and for a second I half expect her to toss the unconscious man off her, but she simply shifts the weight and hugs him to her waist.

“That’s your problem, Suzy! You always manage to screw up your nights. Damn, what would it kill you to be a normal woman who works, eats, and has sex? Not necessarily in that order, but…”

The man coughs up blood into his mouth and we both nearly pitch forward at the sound of his cold, slack body.

“But” Penelope continues with a grunt “you’d rather get involved in a massacre, call your best friend in the middle of the night and pretend you’re rescuing a Greek god so she’ll crawl out of bed to help. And, damn it, Suzy… That’s not okay!”

I snort, exasperated. “I couldn’t leave him on that sidewalk!”

“Yes, you could!” she replies. “Because Suzane Johnson thinks she’s too noble to run away and let other people handle it, and we both know it. You could have just fled and let someone else deal with it. It wouldn’t be the first time…”

Stopping beneath the hospital’s glowing sign, she suddenly turns to me, her dark eyes flickering with a trace of guilt. Penelope brushes a strand of golden-brown hair from her cheek and sighs.

I don’t expect an apology. There’s no reason for one. Penelope knows all my secrets and has lived through the worst of them. If anything sculpts me, my friend is made of every storm that’s hit me.

The double doors part as we push in together. The man breathing hard at my ear is as pale as the lobby walls, and sounds from every direction swell in our ears before we reach the reception desk.

“I still think taking him to my mother would’ve been better…” Penelope whispers, waving frantically for help.

The receptionist flicks her long ponytail as she signals the nurses, who hurry over, and I can’t tell whether I feel relief at having done my part or more worry that we’re handing him off when he didn’t want to involve doctors and police.

“I’m sorry I can’t help more, buddy…” I whisper into his ear, though I know he’s unconscious. A burly attendant pulls my coat back from him and I clutch the fabric to my arm, focused only on the stranger and his fragile face.

When the nurses lift him onto a stretcher and the receptionist nods for us to follow, I turn to Penelope: “Why did you think your mother could help?”

Penelope shrugs innocently.

“Maybe because she’s a doctor…”

“Veterinarian!”

“So what?” Her lips curl in a cheeky smile. “Mom taught me the only difference between dogs and men is that when you’re sad, one of them licks your face and acts a clown until you smile, while the other calls you hysterical and blames your hormones. Other than that, no difference.”

“Human anatomy disagrees with you.”

Penelope rolls her eyes and leans on the pale wooden reception counter.

“What is your relation to the victim?” asks the woman behind the desk, polite.

“We’re just escorts; we don’t even know him…” Penelope says with a flirtatious grin. “Not that I wanted male company tonight…”

The receptionist looks away, amused, and I lean in to get a better look at Penelope’s face. Here she is: my friend, always angling for attention. Judging by the flush on the receptionist’s cheeks, it’s working.