I wake up on Sunday morning with my knee still throbbing and my pride still bruised. The bandages Bastian wrapped around my palms are wrinkled from sleep, and when I flex my fingers, the bloody scrapes pull tight enough to make me wince.
I could stay in bed. It would make all my dreams true if I could order takeout, binge Netflix, and pretend yesterday never happened.
But I’ve never been good at staying down. Even when I should. That’s not what Eliana Hunter does.
So I drag myself out of bed, shower carefully around my injuries, and pull on a fresh pair of leggings and my most comfortable sneakers. The white cane sits in the corner where I dropped it last night, folded and accusing.
You can do hard things,the sticky note on my bathroom mirror reminds me. I’ve got them everywhere—at work, at home. This one has been there for years. It’s yellowed and curling at the edges.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter at it. “Real motivational.”
But I grab the cane anyway.
The park near my apartment is mostly empty this early on a Sunday. A few joggers pass by, their breath pluming in the February cold. A woman walks three dogs that seem steadfastly determined to go in three different directions. An old man feeds pigeons from a bench, scattering breadcrumbs and cooing under his breath.
I find a stretch of paved path that’s relatively clear and unfold the cane.Arc left, arc right,I remind myself.Two steps ahead. Shoulder-width. Easy as could be.
I start walking.
The rhythm comes back faster than I expected. Maybe muscle memory is a real thing, even after just one disastrous attempt. The cane sweeps left, taps the pavement. Sweeps right, taps again. My steps follow, cautious but steady.
A runner skirts way around me, and I appreciate that, unlike the businessman yesterday, she doesn’t make a big show of it. No pitying looks or exaggerated concern. She simply gives me room and keeps on moving.
I think of what Sage said about his wheelchair yesterday.Everyone wonders. Most people just stare and pretend they’re not curious.
Disability is a funny thing like that. It sets you apart. Makes it glaringly obvious to the world that you are different in some way. Aren’t we all, though? We’ve all got something that makes usus. The gawker is as unique as the gawkee. It’s theshameof the difference that stings, not the difference itself. It’s the painful thought that our stories are something that must be hidden.
Screw that.
I need to stop hiding mine.
So I keep going. The path curves gently around a small pond where ducks paddle in lazy circles. The cane finds the edge where pavement meets grass, and I adjust my trajectory without thinking about it too hard.
The sun breaks through the clouds for a moment, weak and watery but there. I pause to feel it on my face.
Seventy-nine days ago, I wouldn’t have noticed this. The particular quality of February sunlight, thin and pale but still warm enough to matter. I would’ve been too busy checking my phone, mentally running through my to-do list, planning my next move, forever worried about the next thousand things in my life.
Now, I notice it all.
Light glistens on the pond’s surface. Ducks chatter to each other. Someone’s coffee rises into the air from a nearby bench, rich and dark.
It’s a beautiful world, if you just stop and soak it up every now and then.
I open my eyes and keep walking. The path takes me past a playground where a dad pushes his daughter on a swing. Her laughter rings out, pure and un-self-conscious. That’s a nice sound, too.
I make it around the entire loop without falling, panicking, or phoning my boss in tears. When I reach my starting point again, I’m actually smiling. It’s a small victory. Pathetically small, really. I walked around a park with a stick. Toddlers accomplish more impressive feats before breakfast.
But it’smine, goddammit.
I’m folding up the cane, still congratulating myself on not dying, when a car door slams behind me.
“Eliana Hunter?”
The voice is male, unfamiliar, and way too close for comfort.
I spin around, and there it is: the black sedan with the blacked-out windows that’s been haunting me all week.
A man steps out. He’s wearing a dark suit and dark sunglasses despite the overcast sky. He’s built like he spends way too much quality time with a heavy punching bag. Every instinct I have screamsrun, but my stupid knee is still messed up from yesterday’s concrete kiss, and the cane in my hand feels about as useful as a pool noodle.
