The phone buzzes in my hand. The screen lights up with an incoming call, "Mom" displayed across the top. My heart slams against my ribs.
For a split second I consider not answering. But that's not fair to them.
They don't know yet. I swipe to answer, hand shaking as I lift it to my ear.
"Maddie, honey, we're so sorry we're running late." Hanna Reyes's voice comes through warm and worried, a mother's anxiety bleeding into every word.
"This stupid car. I told your father we should have taken it in last week but no, he insisted it was fine. How are you feeling? Are you nervous? When do you skate?"
My throat closes completely. I try to speak but nothing comes out. The silence stretches between us, heavy and wrong.
"Maddie?" The warmth in her voice shifts to confusion. "Sweetheart, are you there? Can you hear me?"
I force air through my constricted throat. "Mrs. Reyes, this isn't—this isn't Maddie."
The pause that follows is devastating. I can hear her processing, trying to understand why someone else is answering her daughter's phone.
When she speaks again, her voice has gone thin and high. "Who is this? Where's Maddie? What's happened?"
"This is Emily Harper." My voice cracks on my own name. "I'm Maddie's roommate at Lakeview. Mrs. Reyes, there's been an accident."
"What?" The word comes out sharp, disbelieving. "What kind of accident? Where's my daughter? Is she okay?"
"Hanna, what's going on?" A male voice in the background, David Reyes demanding answers from his wife. "Who are you talking to? Is that Maddie?"
"It's not Maddie." Hanna's voice moves away from the phone slightly as she addresses her husband.
"It's her roommate. Something's happened. She says there's been an accident."
"Give me the phone." I hear rustling, footsteps, the unmistakable sounds of panic beginning to set in. But Hanna doesn't hand over the phone yet.
"Emily?" Her voice comes back, stronger now but threaded with terror. "Emily, you need to tell me what happened. Right now. Is Maddie hurt? Where is she?"
"She fell during her performance." The words come out in a rush, tripping over each other. "During her triple axel. Her ankle—it twisted wrong when she landed. She's conscious, but she's hurt. They're taking her to the hospital right now."
Hanna makes a sound that's half sob, half gasp. "No. No, no, no. Which hospital? Where are they taking her?"
"I don't know yet. The ambulance just left. Coach is finding out and she'll text me." I grip the phone tighter, wishing I had better answers.
"Mrs. Reyes, I'm so sorry. I tried to get to her but they wouldn't let me past security. I couldn't—"
"We're still an hour away." She's crying now, full sobs breaking through her words. "This goddamn car. We should have been there. We should have been there watching her skate. David, we need to go right now."
"Hanna, give me the phone." David's voice is firm, cutting through his wife's panic. More rustling, then his voice comes through the speaker, controlled but with an edge of strain that suggests he's barely holding it together. "This is David Reyes. I need you to tell me exactly what you saw."
I close my eyes and force myself to replay it. "Maddie was skating her program. Everything was perfect until the triple axel. When she landed, her blade didn't grip right. Her ankle rolled and she went down hard. She hit the ice and she didn't get up right away."
"Was she unconscious?" His questions come rapid-fire, methodical, like he's trying to build a complete picture from fragments. "Did she hit her head? What did the medical team say?"
"She was conscious the whole time. I don't think she hit her head. The medical team examined her on the ice and then put her on a stretcher. They put an oxygen mask on her even though she was breathing on her own. I think that was just precautionary."
"How bad was the ankle?" Each word is clipped, precise. "Could you see?"
"It was bent wrong." My voice wavers. "I could see from the stands that it wasn't—it wasn't at the right angle. She wasn't moving it."
I hear him take a sharp breath, hear Hanna crying in the background. There's a pause. Then: "Who are you again? Why do you have my daughter's phone?"
The question catches me off guard. "I came down to the locker room to get our things. The phone was here and it started ringing, so I answered. I thought you should know right away."
Another pause. I can hear a car door slam, an engine starting. David's voice comes back quieter, some of the tension easing just slightly. "Thank you for telling us. We're leaving now. We'll be there as fast as we can."
"I'll text you when I know which hospital." I'm already pulling out my own phone with my free hand, checking for messages from Coach. Nothing yet. "As soon as I find out, I'll let you know."
"Thank you, Emily." The words are stiff, formal, but there's genuine gratitude underneath. "We appreciate you being there. We'll see you soon." The call ends with a soft click. I sit staring at Maddie's phone, hands shaking.
I just had my first conversation with Maddie's parents in eight years. Eight years since we were kids at that small-town rink, since Hanna would braid both our hair before practice and David would drive us to competitions. And I had to tell them their daughter is injured.
The door swings open and my mother appears, her face urgent and pale. "Emily, we need to go. Right now."
I look up at her, still holding both phones. "Coach hasn't texted yet. We don't know which hospital—"
"The ambulance already left five minutes ago." Mom crosses to me and gently but firmly pulls me to my feet.
"We'll follow it. We'll find out where they took her when we get there. But sweetheart, we need to leave now if we want any chance of getting there before she goes in for X-rays or whatever they need to do."
I shove both phones in my pocket and grab Maddie's bag along with my own. Mom takes my elbow, steadying me as we head for the door. "Did you tell her parents?" she asks.
"Yeah." The word comes out hollow. "They're driving here now. They were an hour away when I called."
"Oh, honey." Mom's grip tightens. "That must have been awful." It was. But I don't have words for it, don't have the capacity to process anything beyond getting to the hospital.
We push through the arena's back exit into the parking lot. The afternoon sun is too bright. The world should look different now, but it doesn't. "Where did we park?" I can't remember.
"This way." Mom guides me toward her car. "I know where it is. Just breathe, Emily. We're going to get there. She's going to be okay." I want to believe her. I follow, clutching Maddie's bag like it might keep me grounded.