“You didn’t text me that you’re coming to my place,” Kevîn said as he played with a red bandana which partly covered Milå’s braids; dark braids thicker than his fingers.

Milå turned her face to Kevîn; the only movement she could afford in the canopy bed as she was flat on her stomach again, sparing her injured bums as best she could. “My parents took my phone and laptop, just imagine,” she said.

Kevîn looked into her sleepless eyes, and said, “I see your eyes reveal a lot about the pain you’ve been through. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have come to your place yesterday.”

Surprisingly, Milå smiled. “I love it when you say sorry to me,” she soothed, “you always sound more honest when you do.”

Kevîn laughed under his breath and resumed chewing his bubble-gum. “I need to know if I should drive my babe to the hospital, so tell me honestly, how are you feeling right now?”

“Better, because I’m with you,” she answered, her dimples showed up. But Kevîn accidentally rested his hand on her injured bums, and she screamed: “Ha! Kev, what the heck!?”

“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry.” Kevîn threw up his hands like a potential victim at gunpoint and almost jumped off his bed. “I’m sorry,” he repeated as Milå closed her eyes—listening to the pain. “Are you okay?” he asked her, and threw his bubble-gum into the bin under the bed.

“Jha, but that was clumsy from you,” Milå criticized him.

“I apologize,” Kevîn said sincerely: “You must be hurt. Only if I had a chance to see your hips I’d know how much.”

“You’re free to see them, go on,” Milå said mindlessly.

Kevîn uncovered her leather skirt and discovered two red lines on her bums; wider and harsh for her childish skin. He worried. “Babe, I must take you to the hospital.”

“Really?” Milå doubted. “Is it that serious?”

“Yes.” He pecked each bum either side of a red G-string and Milå giggled. “Come,” he said as he carried her on his back.

The SUV, a BMW, was lying relaxed in the shade, hiding from the beautiful yellow sun. This German machine was very dark, as if since its birth it had never repented of its sins, or perhaps as a machine it had never had such a divine occasion. It belonged to his father, who was deep underground; not that he was a miner, but a lifeless governor. His mother was a salonist, but she did not possess a salon car. She always waited for Kevîn to pick her up at closing time, just before sunset. Meanwhile, Kevîn drove to a private hospital at the foot of the mountain; Milå was lying face down in the back seat. It happened to be a short trip, the doctor only prescribed diclofenac.

“You’ll be free from all the pain, within an hour,” Dr. Shilo predicted: “I’m sorry your classmate bullied you so badly. I’m surprised that bullying still exists in college in 2023. I would appreciate it if you would report it to the dean.”

Milå had lied to the doctor that she was a victim of bullying. “Yes, ma’am.” She reacted with one thumb up in Kevîn’s laps.

“Good afternoon.” Dr. Shilo dismissed the two.