The bed was empty, and the young man was huddled in the corner, just as he had been the two other times Jake had checked on him overnight. This time, the man was asleep, it seemed. Not half sobbing, his eyes screwed shut, his whole body trembling with what could only be fear. The pillow Jake had given him was still under his head, but the blanket was pushed halfway off, covering only parts of his upper body and torso and then very little of his legs.
Jake was sure the man had reasons enough for not sleeping in the bed—or not beingableto sleep in the bed. And he’d spent half the night worrying, in and out of the room, sitting next to the man on the floor—close but not too close or the man’s crying would get worse—trying to console him.
Nothing much had worked.
His sister would have called him a lunkhead again. And she would probably be right. Sitting on the floor had been a dumb thing to do, because getting up had been more than difficult. And he hurt just as much now as he had at his worst theday before. But he’d had to try. He hadn’t been able to just stand by and watch as the man had struggled.
Although it really hadn’t mattered in the end.
He stood there for another minute, which was about as long as his leg would allow, and then he turned and limped slowly down the hallway toward the kitchen, figuring he might as well get started with his morning routine, or at least however much of it he’d be able to manage.
Jake didn’t let himself stop at the end of the hallway—if he stopped, he already knew he’d be done. Instead, he angled to his right and continued to the small corner in his living room that he’d designated his workout space. Then he lowered himself to the soft carpet of the floor.
And he immediately regretted that decision.
Several barely muffled curses escaped him as the muscles in his thigh seized up, and he scooted back to sit against the wall and then straightened his leg out in front of him in an effort to get the muscles to stop spasming. But the pain continued, intense and harsh and almost with some pulsing rhythm.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, now gripping his thigh again. He couldfeelthe muscles trembling, shaking, and he had to force himself to take controlled breaths as he tilted his head back against the wall and waited it out.
That was about the only thing he could do, anyway. Wait it out.
He tried not to count the minutes, but he automatically counted the breaths. After fifteen, the feeling that his muscles were knotted and trembling began to ease, and after thirty-one, the pain was almost bearable. At forty, he blinked back the tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes and then slowly bent his leg up, testing it. When it didn’t spasm again immediately, he let out a long breath, pushed himself away from the wall, and rolled over onto his stomach.
Fifty push-ups. Almost.
One hundred sit-ups. Kinda.
A two-ish-minute plank.
Twenty-five single-leg squats on his good leg. While holding onto the back of the couch for support.
And before he could start his massaging and physical therapy exercises for his bad leg, he collapsed back onto the floor, his face flush with pain and exhaustion, and he wished that, at least this morning, he wasn’t quite so stubborn. He wished he could let himself just crawl back into bed and call it a day.
But that wasn’t him.
So instead, he gave himself a minute to rest. Then he finished his morning routine—minus the mile walk—holding back tears the whole time.
Chapter Eight
Rye
Ryewokeuptonoises from out in the living room. Strange breathing. Jake’s deep voice mumbling occasionally, not sounding quite as gentle and kind as it usually had. Random thuds, either on the wall or the floor.
And at some point as he was curling up and pulling the blanket to his chin, Rye realized he was on the floor in the corner of the room. He didn’t remember moving out of the bed. Or apparently bringing the pillow and blanket with him?
He did, however, remember the nightmares. Running through a cold, dark forest. Being chased by a monster of the worst sort—a monster he just knew wanted to hurt him in the worst ways. Tripping over rocks and roots that he hadn’t seen. Always in the dark. Always cold and chilled and terrified and hurting.
The monster never caught him. But italmostdid. It somehow always backed off just at the right moment to let him get away—so it could keep chasing him.
And somehow, those nightmares had left him feeling even more exhausted than he had the night before.
Out in the living room, he heard more noises—this time what sounded like dishes clinking, maybe. Maybe the door to the refrigerator closing. Something sizzling.
Then he could smell food. Toast, he thought. His stomach growled, and he scrunched his eyes shut and swallowed hard.
Breakfast.
Dinner last night—with dessert!—and then breakfast this morning. Breakfast and clean clothes and a warm place to sleep and a room with bright lights and windows.
