Two Months Later…

I'm stuck in line at a gigantic department store, yet again. I try to avoid this situation, but when I'm almost completely out of all the basic food and drink I need, the situation becomes pretty dangerous. As in on the verge of eating my face problems. My arms are weighed down by a million different bags, containing milk, eggs, cereal, coffee and tea and everything else I will need to live for the next three weeks.

"That'll be eighty eight pounds," drones the woman. I hand her my credit card, too lazy to figure out how much I'm actually supposed to pay.

That's one hundred dollars, right?

I'm still trying to get a grasp on the whole dollars to pounds conversion. That, and how to not totally stick out as an obnoxious and loud American white chick. I don't usually come off like that, but some people seem to think that just because I'm American I am the epiphany of girly white-chickness. I am ashamed.

I still haven't called Phil. The number is tucked away inside a drawer, using a little secret compartment I was able to make out of paper and tape. I'm keeping a few things there, from birthday cards to business cards to credit cards. Maybe someday I'll call him, but the last two months have been a pretty nice time. I haven't needed help. I'm not sure if I would've called him if I wasn't OK.

"Thanks for shopping," says the woman. I walk away, bags still clinging to my arms. For some reason the checkout is on the second floor, and you have to take an epic escalator adventure to get to your car, and the street. The escalator is packed, with people every two inches. I wait to find a spot on the escalator that isn't occupied by a fat woman carrying multiple sticks of butter or children with faces full of free samples. I am definitely not amused.

Finally I find a place that isn't occupied and slide in. Sadly, this escalator is slow, and by slow, I mean SLOW. I will be surprised if I get off this escalator by my thirtieth birthday, and I'm only twenty-two. So I'm sandwiched between an old woman and a man who smells like cat urine and gasoline. I'm don't question it.

Just then, the man behind me steps on my converse shoelace, and I go tumbling down the steps face-first. My ankle twists on one step while my right eyebrow goes slamming into the edge of another. The woman behind me loudly yelps, and someone presses the emergency stop. We screech to a stop, and I slowly sit up. I feel blood dripping down my face.

"Ow…" I moan, touching my brow. I wince, feeling the giant gash in my face. Someone touches my shoulder. I look up, still holding a hand to my face.

"Whoa. Are you OK?" asks the guy. "I don't think so…" I say, wiping my bloody hand on the leg of my jeans.

Shoot. I like those. I hope that washes out…

He grimaces, staring at the cut. "Hm. I think that might need stitches," he says. I put my hand back up.

"Seriously?" I ask, a little freaked out by the idea of having someone SEW on my FACE. He nods, "That looks pretty nasty. Should we get you to A&E?" he asks. I shake my head nervously and try to stand up. Pain shoots through my leg, and I grip the railing. People begin to shuffle past us, no longer interested in my dilemma. The guy looks at my leg, raising an eyebrow.

"Can you move it?" he asks. I rotate my foot, grimacing. That hurts like Hell. "Yeah, but I'd prefer not to." I stand up straight just as an employee comes with a towel. He hands it up over the escalator side and I lean over to get it. Whoa… A wave of dizziness hits me like a brick wall and I double over.

"I think we should go to A&E now," he says. Before I can protest, I black out. Holy crap. This is bad.

…

I wake up, staring into the dark brown eyes of the guy from the store. Shit… What happened? Isn't this guy familiar? Nearby someone moans, making me bolt up. The guy sits in a chair near the hospital bed. Is it a hospital bed? Why the eff am I in a hospital? I look around.

"You passed out after falling on the escalator. Doctors say you have a concussion and a sprained ankle." He says. I feel my head. A wrapping of canvas or gauze covers my skull. I touch my eyebrow, and shrink back at the criss-cross of stitches. Gross.

"I'm Dan Howell, by the way. You're Elinor, right?" I look at him. "Dan Howell? Like, the Dan Howell?" If I fainted before, I definitely felt like it now…