“Sweetie, don’t apologize,” her mom says immediately.
The screen jerks sideways and Zalea’s dad’s face suddenly fills the frame.
“What we care about,” he declares, adjusting his glasses and squinting at the camera, “is that you’re okay, honey. And that Gordon is treating you right.”
I close my eyes briefly because Mr. Evans has known me since I was ten years old. He absolutely knows my name is not Gordon.
“Dad,” Zalea warns. “Be nice. Please.”
He huffs. “Fine. I hopeGabrielis treating you right,” he corrects.
I take that as my cue to pop into frame beside her, offering a small wave and trying not to look as awkward as I feel.
“Hi Mrs. Evans., Mr. Evans,” I say carefully.
Her dad grunts, looking away from the camera, and I know I’ll have to work on getting back on his good side once I’m in Saltwater Springs.
“Gabriel, it’s been so long,” her mother says warmly. “I hope you’re eating well and staying healthy.”
It’s such a simple thing to say, but it hits me deep. My mother died bringing me into the world, and my father never remarried, never even dated. I grew up loved, but not mothered in the way most people understand it. No one ever asked if I was eating enough or sleeping enough unless it was tied to school or surf training.
The small, ordinary concern that her mother shows me feels enormous. It’s what I imagine my own mom might’ve sounded like.
“Alright folks!” Zale announces, walking in with two nurses and a wheelchair. “I originally wanted to do something epic, like a baby sumo wrestler suit showdown, but apparently that violates multiple hospital policies. So, we’re going with the next best thing.”
The nurses help Zalea out of bed carefully—which is much easier now that she’s not hooked up 24/7 and is allowed to wear her own clothes most days—and into the wheelchair. Once she’s settled into the wheelchair, I take my place behind it and roll her out of the room after Zale who’s taking off down the hall.
“Where are you taking us?” she asks, grinning at her phone where her parents are still watching eagerly.
“The cafeteria,” Zale says, backing toward the door. “It’s late and most of the food spots are closed, so it’s basically empty.”
We pile into the elevator and slowly ride down to the main floor. Zalea rests her hand on her stomach, absentmindedly tracing small circles, as she talks to her parents. When the doors slide open, Zale darts forward and snatches the phone straight out of her hand.
“Hey!” she yelps.
“Follow me!” he shouts over his shoulder, sprinting down the hall.
“He doesn’t expect me to run after him while pushing you, does he?” I mutter.
Zalea giggles, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. I pick up the pace as much as I can without jostling her, and we round the same corner Zale disappeared around seconds earlier.
We find the cafeteria completely empty, chairs flipped onto tables, and lights dimmed low. But, in the centre of the room are dozens of clusters of weighted blue and pink balloons. They float gently, their ribbons brushing against a large blank canvas propped on an easel.
Zale finishes adjusting Zalea’s phone on a portable tripod, stepping back to check the framing. He flips the camera so that their parents can see the canvas too.
He turns toward Zalea, his expression softening. “So, we all know you were in an art program before the accident. And sadly, because of it, you didn’t get to finish.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But I remember you telling me how much you loved painting. So…get on over here.”
I lock the wheelchair before helping Zalea to her feet. She’s stronger than she was a week ago, but she still winces when she shifts her weight. I wrap an arm around her waist, steadying her as we walk toward Zale. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out two black blindfolds.
“I’m going to need you both to trust me,” he says, waggling them.
He ties Zalea’s on first, and then he hands one to me. I knot it behind my head, the world going dark. He steps closer and guides us both forward before taking my hands and dipping them into something cold and slick.
“This better be paint, Zale,” I mutter.
Zalea giggles beside me. “Smells like it.”
“Relax,” he says, pressing my palms flat against the canvas. “Do not move, Gabriel.”
