Clara, supporting herself on a pillar in the pavilion, slowly stood up. The wound on her back burned like fire; every step pulled at her flesh, and the seeping blood had stained the back of her loungewear a dark brown, sticking to her back, cold and astringent. She took out her phone, her fingertips trembling slightly from blood loss, and dialed her private doctor's number—the one she had hired with her ballet competition prize money years ago, who had been responsible for her family's health for years. This doctor had been by her side during her dance injuries and prenatal checkups.
"Doctor, I have a back injury and I need you to come and treat it." Clara 's voice was weak and strained; the sharp pain in her back forced her to lean against the wall to keep her balance.