And what if that’s what you are to them, huh? Some deaf omega they can fuck to say they did it. You’re not their scent match, so what happens if they find her? You think they’ll stay when the novelty wears off? That’s what I’m trying to protect you from. I never want to see you in pain. Joseph… he broke something in you, and you’re just now returning to the person you were.
I tune him out halfway through. He knows exactly how to twist the knife, and this time he does it deep. My hand flies before my brain catches up, the sting of my hand meeting hischeek reverberating through my palm, the jolt traveling up my arm. We both flinch.
My body shakes as I gaze at him, my vision blurring, before I snatch my phone from the table and run from the kitchen straight to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
17
Lincoln
The classroomat the Center for Sight and Hearing is different from what I expected—clean walls, open windows, and a big U-shaped table that makes it impossible to hide in the back. Ten of us sit around it: parents, teachers, a couple of teenagers, and me. The lone guy in work boots and a faded Scorpions hoodie, trying not to look completely out of place.
The instructor, a short woman with kind eyes and a quick smile, starts by writingA–Zon the whiteboard.
“We’ll review letters first,” she signs and says aloud, moving her hands fluidly. “Then we’ll move to family words.”
I already know most of the alphabet. Or I thought I did. The first few letters—A, B, C—come easy now. My fingers remember the rhythm from the time spent watching YouTube videos. But when she calls out random letters, my brain scrambles to keep up.
The more she calls them out, the faster I get. The shapes start to make sense, muscle memory kicking in.
By the time she finishes the alphabet review, my hands ache, but my pride’s alive. I can finally keep pace without needing to peek at the chart taped to the wall.
“Good work,” she says, eyes scanning the room. “Let’s move on to family terms.”
We go throughmother, father, sister, brother.
Simple enough. Open five-hand to the chin for mother, same shape to the forehead for father. Brother starts with a quick flick from the forehead, like tipping a cap, then both hands stack in L-shapes, fingers pointing out. Sister’s almost the same—thumb from the chin, like tying a bonnet string, then the same stacked motion.
My fingers stumble again, but I catch up quicker this time. Every word adds a new piece to a puzzle I didn’t realize I wanted to finish so badly.
Halfway throughgranddaughter,my wrist cramps. I shake it out, flexing my fingers.
I’ve wired houses in hundred-degree heat with my knuckles bleeding. I can handle this.
The instructor pauses, scanning the group. “Any questions before we wrap up for today?”
My hand goes up before I can think better of it.
She points at me with a grin. “Yes?”
“Uh,” I start, feeling all eyes shift my way. “How do you sign… ‘Will you go to dinner with me?’”
A few people chuckle. The instructor’s smile widens, amused but kind. “Someone’s feeling brave.”
She repeats the sentence out loud as she signs it—each motion clean and deliberate.
Will you—she gestures forward, palm up.Go—two fingers walking through the air.Dinner—the sign foreatfollowed bynight,one arm curved like the horizon, the other hand loweringover it like the sun going down.With me—index fingers side by side, drawing inward toward her chest.
I mirror her, watching closely, replaying every movement until it clicks.
“Good,” she says. “Now again. Slower.”
I try once more. Still clumsy, but recognizable.
When she nods, the class lets out a small round of applause and laughs quietly.
“Nice work,” she says with a wink. “Someone’s dedicated.”
I grin, rubbing the back of my neck. If only they knew who I was practicing for.
