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“But, um, she was honestly really nice. She said if I wanted to do something to make amends, I could volunteer with her organization, uh, New Horizons. They retrofit houses for disabled people.”

“You mean, like wheelchair ramps and stuff?”

“Yeah, and sometimes even big stuff, like kitchen and bathroom remodels to accommodate a person’s needs.”

“That sounds really cool,” Knight said. “Let us know if we can ever help out too.”

“Yeah? Okay. I’ll let Dakota know. They work with contractors, but they always need some volunteers too, for the smaller parts of the job and cleanup once it’s done.”

“So, when are you starting?” Tex asked.

“Next weekend, I think. I talked to my manager about changing up my schedule a little so I can help on Saturday.”

“She was okay with that?” Knight said. “Because the last thing you need is to lose another job.”

“I know. But Pauline knows Dakota. Loves her. She was cool with it as long as I give her plenty of notice to schedule around it.”

“So…you’re doing better?” Hollywood said hesitantly. “With everything?”

I blew out a breath. “I’m working on it.”

“That’s all you can do,” Tex said.

Ghost nodded. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Pretty sure I’m going to need it.”

Volunteering for Dakota’s organization was a step forward. I could do something positive and show her I was serious about making amends. But it ultimately wouldn’t change anything.

Dakota would still be paralyzed from the T10 down, unable to walk—unable, even, to control her bladder and bowels fully; I’d looked it up after Kit had implied as much as lunch—and I would still be the guy who’d done that to her.

But beggars and choosers and all. I couldn’t undo what happened to Dakota in the past. All I could do was try to improve her life in the future.

I just hoped we could all live with that.

CHAPTER 12

KIT

Jared stood in our PT gym and eyed the stationary bike like it was a deadly viper. “Not this again.”

“Yep, afraid so.”

He huffed. “Can’t I just go back to lying down while you bend my knee for me?” he complained, sounding more like a seven-year-old boy than a seventy-plus-year-old man.

I chuckled. “Not if you want to continue improving your range of motion.”

He lifted his hand, waffling it back and forth in a so-so gesture. “How much do I really need to move at this stage of my life? Not like I’m hitting the dance clubs anymore.”

“Really?” I mused. “So you don’t want to lose the cane and take Meryl dancing?”

He scowled. Oh, yeah, I had his number. He’d been flirting up a storm with Meryl, the outpatient who typically came in right after him. She’d skipped last week, and he’d sulked like a heartsick teenager.

“You fight dirty,” he said, finally moving to climb on the bike. “I see how it is. You’re a sadist.”

Jared was all bark and no bite. Compared to some patients, this was a positive attitude. Miguel, who’d lost part of one leg to amputation, was really struggling. I wished he’d give me grief about therapy. Instead, he barely spoke, barely tried. His heart wasn’t in it.

I stood by and assisted as Jared climbed onto the bike, steadying him as he got settled. “Why are we doing this again?” he asked.