I groan.
He grins. “That’s my boy.”
The drive home feels too bright.
The sun is out; January is pretending it’s gentle. My leg throbs with that post-PT burn that means I worked. That I earned something.
I have one crutch today.
One.
Jason didn’t let me leave without it, but he also didn’t let me leave with two.
A compromise.
A challenge.
My phone buzzes at a red light.
Beck: how’s the cyborg knee? u walking yet or still hobbling like a wounded deer…
A laugh slips out of me, small and involuntary.
one crutch. don’t get emotional.
Beck: too late. coach says tell u he’s proud. weight room’s still waiting whenever you’re ready.
My chest tightens at the wordproud.
Pops says it like it’s currency.
Coach says it like it’s motivation.
Beck says it like it’s fact.
I stare at the screen too long, then type back:
thanks. tell him i’m not done.
The light turns green.
I drive.
When I pull into the Rhodes’ driveway, there’s a car I don’t recognize parked by the curb.
White. Clean. Official.
My stomach drops before I even get out.
Hospice.
The word isn’t on the car, but I know. I can feel it in the air—like the house is holding its breath again.
I step inside, moving slower than I want to because one crutch means I have to be careful. The living room is full of voices.
Not loud.
Soft.
