“It looks far worse than it really is.”

“She isn’t moving, Mom.”

“She’s startled,” my mother said, pointing at the sink.

“Get a wet paper towel and wipe that syrup off her face before it dries in her hair.

The photographer for our family portraits is coming at eleven.”

I took my phone out of my skirt pocket and tapped the emergency button on the screen.

“What are you doing with that phone?” my mother asked.

“I’m calling 911.”