Page 83 of Property of Bob

“But only because somebody needs to keep an eye on you.”

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

“And there is going to be a pillow barrier.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she countered.

“No.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t have that many pillows.”

Ramona looked at the bed. There were two. She looked back at me. “You’re not playing fair.” Ramona grabbed some clothes from her bag. “I’m changing.”

“Okay.”

She pointed at me. “Stay there.”

“Where the fuck am I going?”

Her eyes dropped to the wheelchair. “Good point.”

“Asshole.”

She smiled. “You said it, not me.” She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.

The second it clicked shut, I let my head fall back.

Fuck, I was tired. More than tired. My entire body felt heavy. My throat burned. My legs ached from the little bit of walking I’d done earlier, and I could practically hear the doctor telling me I’d done too much.

Still worth it. I was home.

Ramona was here. For tonight, that was enough.

I looked at the bathroom door, then at the bed. I wasn’t letting her help me into the fucking thing. I locked the wheels and pushed myself up.

My legs immediately protested. “Fuck,” I whispered. I stood there until everything steadied.

Then I took the few steps to the bed. I sat on the edge and caught my breath.

My shoes came off first, then I worked my pants down and kicked them onto the floor.

That took more effort than it should have.

By the time I pulled the covers back and got underneath them, my heart was beating harder and my throat felt like someone had dragged sandpaper across it, but I was in bed.

By myself.

Small fucking victories.

The bathroom door opened, and Ramona stepped out wearing sleep shorts and a loose T-shirt.

She stopped as her eyes went from the empty wheelchair to me. “How did you get over there?”

I lifted an eyebrow.