Page 58 of Cherry Picking

So Murphy talks. It’s a stream of disjointed complaints—the cold tile, the hallway light he never got around to fixing, the neighbor’s dog that’s been barking since eleven o’clock.

Briggs doesn’t offer much. He just lets out a short yeah every minute or so, a breadcrumb of presence so his father knows he’s still on the other end of the line.

His knuckles are white against the leather. As we clear the Boulder Highway interchange, I reach over and cover his hand with mine, tracing the rough skin of his knuckles. He doesn’t turn his head. But he does flip his hand over and lock his fingers with mine.

When we hit the driveway, he’s out of the seat before the engine is even dead. The front door is unlocked, the porch light dark, and the wreath thuds against the wood as he throws it open.

Murphy is on the hallway floor outside Briggs’s childhood bedroom, propped against the baseboard in his pajamas.

“Where’s the walker, Dad?”

“Right by the bed.”

“You didn’t use it?”

“It’s three goddamn steps to the bathroom.” Murphy’s jaw is set in a familiar, stubborn line. “I’ve done it a hundred times without the wheels.”

“Yeah, well.” Briggs drops to a crouch beside him. “How’s that working out for you tonight?”

“Don’t get cute. Just help me up.”

It takes both of us to manage it. I slide under one arm while Briggs takes the bulk of the weight on the other. We count it down together, and Murphy lets out a sharp intake of breath on three.

“Easy,” I murmur. “Don’t put any weight on that side—”

“I’m aware of how my own anatomy functions, kid.”

“Then use the good one.”

“Christ Almighty.” He anchors a hand on the doorframe. “The two of you. Ganging up on an invalid at three in the morning.”

“You’re not an invalid, Dad,” Briggs says, his voice flat.

“Also not the preferred terminology anymore,” I add. The second the words clear my teeth, I regret them. Not the time. Definitely not the place.

“Get your hands off me,” Murphy snaps.

Nobody lets go. The walk out to the rental is a slow, ungraceful performance. Briggs provides the strength while I manage the doors, Murphy swearing a steady blue streak through every inch of the carpet.

Once he’s situated in the passenger seat, I sprint back inside for a bag of frozen peas and wedge them against his ankle. It’s a nineteen-minute drive to Henderson Hospital, and not a single soul says a word.

That’s how we end up spending our Christmas morning: in an ER curtained bay, under a strand of tinsel someone’s taped to the triage desk, while a nurse in a Santa hat checks Murphy’s vitals.

The doctor finally surfaces around six. She’s young and professional, and I appreciate that she talks to Murphy instead of through him.

“Good news is there are no fractures. X-ray is clean.” She pivots the screen so he can see the image, a gesture of transparency most doctors skip. “What you’ve managed to do is roll an ankle that was already compromised. There’s significant swelling and some soft tissue damage.”

“So I’m fine,” Murphy says.

“You’re intact. But you’ll need to see your regular PT once the holiday is over,” she says gently. “You need to stay off that foot entirely for a couple of weeks. That means the chair full-time, not the walker. After that, we’ll reassess and likely get you back on your feet where you left off.”

Murphy stares at the fluorescent lights.

“Mr. Maxwell?”

“The chair,” he says.

“For two weeks.”