Sadie sighed—a harsh, jagged sound. She hooked her arms under the woman's armpits. The coat felt surprisingly heavy, the fabric densely woven and expensive to the touch, slipping slightly against Sadie's bleach-roughened hands.
"On three," Sadie grunted. "One, two, three."
She heaved. The woman cried out—a short, sharp gasp of pain—but she pushed off the ground with her good leg. Sadie took most of her weight. The old woman felt fragile, like a bundle of dry sticks wrapped in heavy fabric. Together, they hobbled toward the diner door. Sadie kicked it open with her foot, dragging the woman out of the rain and into the harsh, unforgiving fluorescent light.
The diner smelled intensely of fried onions and floor wax. To Sadie, it was the smell of a cage. But as she dragged the old woman through the doorway, it felt strangely like a sanctuary.
"Booth two," Sadie breathed, half-carrying her.
She eased the woman down onto the red vinyl. The cushion hissed, releasing a puff of stale air. The woman slumped against the high back, her eyes closing tight, her breathing shallow.
Sadie looked at her own hands: they were smeared with watery blood. She wiped them aggressively on her apron, leaving rusty streaks across the faded white cotton.
"Dale!" Sadie yelled toward the kitchen. "Bring the first aid kit! The one in the manager's office, not the garbage one from the line!"
A muffled curse echoed from the back, followed by the clatter of a heavy metal box being knocked off a shelf.
Sadie turned back to the woman. She pulled a wad of cheap, scratchy napkins from the metal dispenser on the table. "Press this to your head," she ordered, handing them over.
The woman didn't move. Her hands remained limp in her lap.
Swallowing a curse, Sadie leaned over the table. She pressed the napkins against the gash on the woman's forehead herself. The old woman flinched, a sharp intake of breath hissing through her teeth.
"Sorry," Sadie muttered. She wasn't used to being gentle; her life didn't require it. "You have to keep pressure on it."
Dale emerged from the swinging kitchen doors. He was wiping grease on his pants, holding a dented white box with a faded red cross. He stopped dead when he saw the booth.