“What hit her?” Dan asked, pulling open a Velcro pouch on his bag.

“The pan,” I said.

“That cast-iron skillet lying on the floor.”

“She tripped over her own feet,” my mother said, coming forward from the table.

“She bumped her head on the corner of the lower cabinet door when she fell.”

Six-year-old Olivia stepped out of the shadow of the pantry doorway, holding her white stuffed unicorn by its horn.

Her pink lace dress was spotless, her white knee socks pulled up straight.

Olivia looked at the paramedic, then at her mother, who still stood by the stove holding the yellow sponge.