My mother bent down and grabbed my forearm, her fingers digging into my wrist until her heavy silver bangle clinked against the face of my watch.

“Don’t you call an ambulance to this house,” she said, her voice sinking into the low, hard whisper she used when the lawn service cut the grass too short.

“You pick her up right now and carry her out to your LeSabre.

You’re spoiling everyone’s morning over a little fall.”

The call connected on the second ring.

“Oakland County Emergency, what’s your location?” a dispatcher asked.

“Four-twelve Crestview Drive,” I said clearly into the phone.