We all watch the credits crawl like ants over the dark. Nobody breathes too loud. The room has that heavy-after feeling, like the air forgot where to go.
"That was so dumb!" Gwen explodes, springing up.
"Utter bullshit, more like it!" Beatrice follows, hands flung, righteous.
"Language," Natalie and Sandra say in stereo.
"Utter bull—shoot," Beatrice corrects, adjusting her halo with both hands. "Utter bullshoot."
Frank points at the screen like the director can hear him through time. "You can't make a spaceship bank like a motorcycle. That's not how—"
"—inertia works," Carl finishes, equally offended, already halfway into a lecture with invisible diagrams.
Lucy plops onto the arm of a chair and fans herself with the DVD case. "I, personally, enjoyed when the computer fell in love with the guy who forgot his password for half the movie."
"That's the dumbest part," Gwen says, pacing in orbit around the coffee table. "Also the part where the alien speaks English because 'vibes.' And the part where the hero ejects the core and it just… politely floats away."
"That's not how cores work," Carl mutters, wounded.
"None of it's how anything works," Natalie says, collecting bowls like she's rounding up bad decisions. "Popcorn to sink. Opinions to inside voices."
Beatrice throws her arms wide. "I demand reparations in the form of cookies."
"Reparations are not cookies," Sandra says. "Cookies are cookies."
"Then I demand cookies," Beatrice amends, unrepentant.
I sit in the front row of pretend space, knees lit by the string-star glare. The compass taps once against my chest when I shift, just a little metal yes-I'm-here. The movie did a big terrible thing at the end with a sad song and a promise of a sequel that thinks it's smarter than it is. My stomach feels like a handful of loose change. Not a panic. Just… coins.
Grandpa passes behind me and pauses long enough to set his hand on the chair back—hover, blink, gone. He's almost like a lighthouse.
"Okay," Frank announces, rubbing his face like he can erase plot holes by friction. "Everyone name one thing the movie did right, and you can't say 'the credits ended.' I'll start. The ship design? Cool. That's mine."
"Costumes," Lucy volunteers. "I respect a jumpsuit with twenty-three unnecessary zippers."
"Starfields," Natalie says. "Points for dots."
"Sound design," Sandra says. "Not the science of it. The… thrum. It was good thrumming."
"Thrumming is a word," Beatrice agrees, pleased.
"Absolutely nothing," Gwen declares, then huffs. "Fine. The tiny maintenance robots. They were funny."
Carl folds his arms. "The bolted handrails."
We all look at him.
"What?" he protests. "It's responsible."
Gwen flops back down beside me, still vibrating. "Ben? Blink review?"
She holds up fingers—one for good, two for bad, three for "ask me later." I let the quiet count for a breath, then roll my eyes—our code for rude question, softened—and follow it with two slow blinks. Bad. My mouth does a corner smile it didn't ask permission for. The table laughs with me, not at me. Roof goes back over the room.
"Democracy has spoken," Sandra says. "It says cookie, home, then teeth, then bed."
Gwen pops up beside her; Beatrice docks at her elbow; Lucy glides in because gravity likes a crowd. "Wait—we wanted to take Ben to look out over the creek," Gwen says.
"Creak," Beatrice echoes, then squints. "Or creek? The water one, not the haunted floorboard."
"Water," Gwen says. "Also, it ain't a school night. It's summer." They pivot and deploy the eyes—puppy-dog, industrial strength.
"PLEASE!" they chorus, and the phantom of a laugh scrapes my throat like a match. Not a spark, just the feel of sulfur.
"After dark?" Natalie asks, already losing. "Mosquitoes have a union."
"Plus, it'll give you guys a chance to talk without us being present," Gwen adds.
I glance at Lucy. Just—wow. Obvious. Smart.
"Path is paved," Carl says, like he notarized it, capitalizing on the opening. "Handrail at the overlook."
"Five minutes," Sandra bargains, because she knows how to win things without anyone noticing. "Shoes on actual feet. Bug spray on actual skin. No leaning over rails or naming raccoons."
"An hour," Gwen counters, hands on her hips like a true negotiator.
"Thirty minutes, or nothing at all. Final offer," Natalie says, brows raised, a smug smile at one corner. It's almost like she's saying: good hustle—don't get carried away.
"DEAL!" all three shout, recognizing the best offer on the table.
"Rude to raccoons," Lucy says, but she's already slinging a tote bag like we're breaking out of prison. "I have a flashlight and a worse flashlight, and a couple of blankets."
Frank claps once. "Field trip! Someone grab the folding ramp. Captain's orders."
Grandpa walked over from the kitchen, face serious. "Can I trust y'all to roll Ben over there safely—that you know what you're doing?" His tone was all gentleness, but the seriousness didn't budge.
Gwen nodded, folding her arms like the idea he didn't believe in her stung. "Of course I do. You saw me push him before the movie. Trust me, Grandpa—I've got this."
Gwen's chin is set like a lever she refuses to move. Grandpa studies her, then me.
"Your call, Ben," he says, aiming it at me, not around me. "You want them to take point?"
One blink. Yes. Then once-twice for brave because that's part of the deal now.
Grandpa's mouth softens at the edges. "Okay. Quick rules. Tilt at the curb cut, keep the front casters light, brakes on when we stop. If anything feels off, you say so and they reset. Lucy, you're spotter. Beatrice, you're our hazard siren, not the rocket fuel."
"I can siren responsibly," Beatrice says, immediately sirening under her breath.
Natalie appears with bug spray like a storm front. "Wrists, ankles, back of the neck. No taste-testing."
"I have a timer," Sandra adds, holding up her phone like a badge. "Thirty minutes, plus one grace minute for awe."
"Path's lit," Carl reports, as if the city personally consulted him. "Handrail at the overlook."
"Ramp," Frank says, popping it open like a magician who's learned humility. "Captain's orders."
Gwen steps to the handles, checks the brakes like she's been taught, and leans down so we're level. "Ready?" she asks. Not sure. Ready.
I let my eyes go left for windows. Grandpa nudges me so the string lights paint my knees one last time. Then he pats the chair back—hover, blink, gone. Lighthouse.
We roll.
The ramp gives its one old groan, the porch coughs us into night. The neighborhood is sprinkler hiss and porch-light halos, air warm as a pocket. The compass taps once when the ramp tips, not warning, just present. Gwen keeps it slow, Lucy keeping cadence behind us with the tote bag thumping like a metronome. Beatrice scouts with the worse flashlight shaped like a dolphin that emits moral support instead of lumens.
"Curb," Natalie calls softly.
"Tilting," Gwen answers, competent.
Frank walks sideways like a parade marshal, absolutely certain we need a theme song. Lucy hums one anyway. Carl taps every handrail we pass as if checking on old friends. Sandra does quiet math with her eyes: kids, time, distance, smiles.
At the corner, Gwen eases me down the curb cut so smooth it feels like a comma instead of a period. She grins without looking back. I let my shoulder set, then let it go. The coins in my stomach settle from jangly to spent.
We crest the little slope to the overlook. Water voices up from the dark—glub, whisper, shush. Gwen parks me by the rail and locks the brakes. "Ta-da," she says under her breath, which is the best kind of ta-da.
"Your thirty minutes start now!" Aunt Natalie calls from the house. They turn back inside and the door swings shut, like punctuation: you're on your own.
"Permission for aquatic sound effects?" Beatrice asks, solemn.
Three blinks. She provides dignified glubs and one strategic sproing no creek has ever made. Lucy aims her better flashlight at a slice of water and narrates, "Here we see the rare suburban current, migrating toward a larger argument."
"Lucy, really?" Beatrice says, face full of doubt.
"I haven't pulled a single prank since I got here," Lucy replies, sweet as sugar. "I can start now, if you'd like." Okay, that girl is a tiny bit scary. Never getting in a prank war with her. Ever.
As Lucy and Beatrice wander toward the creek, Gwen suddenly plops onto my lap. The chair tilts back a little, then settles on all four wheels. I don't say anything. It doesn't really matter. Still weird, though.
I look around: grass, water, a line of trees shouldering the edge. Fireflies stitch the dark like the universe's best night-light. I watch with Gwen while Beatrice and Lucy kick their shoes through the creek, hunting for fish or even frogs, laughing and bickering as they go.
"So, Mr. Quiet Boy—decided whether you like it here yet?" Gwen asks, unfolding a blanket over both of us. Her head finds my shoulder, mostly because there isn't anywhere else to put it. I think about what's happened since I got here, everything I've learned about Bellwood and this odd family in passing, and before I can stop myself, I nod. Yes.
Gwen smiles—real, teeth and everything—and lays her head back against me. "That's good. I'm glad, actually. I don't know what happened—aside from Aunt Kaitlyn dying, and you getting hurt—but everyone acts like it's so much worse than that. I just want you to be okay. To know we've got your back, even when you don't realize it."
Her words yank me back—my mother, that night, my father, the explosion, the pain. What she did to me. What he did. The purple man. Suddenly I'm empty, and behind that emptiness there's a furnace—burning a thirst for blood as fuel. My hands clench. My teeth rattle as they scrape.
I tilt my head to look at her, then back up at the sky, not bothering to answer. I force my mind somewhere else. Through little patches in the night clouds, real stars look back at us.
"Speaking of you not speaking… ever thought about learning sign language? Or writing your thoughts down?" she says into my neck, her breath warm, smelling like cookies and pie. "At least until you feel like talking again."
I blink once. Then I look at the stars.
"Great—hold up." She slides the blanket aside, hops off my lap, rummages in Lucy's bag, pulls out a book, zips it shut, and plops back exactly where she was. "Here. A book on sign language. It's actually pretty simple. I'll start teaching some to Lucy and Beatrice so you can talk with them once you get the hang of it." She turns, tucks the book into the pouch under my chair, then settles again, her head on my chest this time.
I sit quietly, listening to Lucy and Beatrice bicker, to Gwen's breathing, to the soft echo of her heartbeat. I tilt my head and my nose finds her hair. Oddly, I don't mind. Before I can think about why, I breathe in—strawberries.
Something weird unfurls in my chest. I feel happy that Gwen is close, and at the same time it feels… wrong, like something I'm not supposed to feel.
I look at her and it comes out raspy, uneven, unused—but it comes out anyway, a whisper of a whisper. "Thank you, Gwen. Thank you." The words are barely there. Dread blooms low in my stomach.
Mommy didn't say I could open my mouth. Mommy…
A sleepy giggle from Gwen snaps the trance. She peeks up at me, eyes half-closed. "You're welcome, Ben… WAIT." Now she's wide awake, her head rose up staring like I just turned into a comet. "You talked. Oh my God—you talked."
Then, almost immediately—as if she remembered something—she rested her head back down, took a deep breath against my chest, and said, "You're welcome. And… thank you for letting me hear your voice. It makes me—I don't know—feel special." Her voice went shy at the edges.
"Even if I never hear it again, it makes me happy to know I was the first. So thank you, Ben. I love you, cousin… but you should totally do it more often."
I smiled but didn't say another word. Gwen caught it and kissed my cheek—so quick I almost thought I imagined it—then turned back to the stars over us.
The feeling from before crept back—not a furnace in my ribs, more a gentle, insistent warmth around my heart. For a heartbeat I pictured holding Gwen tight so she wouldn't drift away. Then reality washed over me with Beatrice's shout: "Guys, we caught a frog!" She and Lucy were already hurrying back along the bank. I looked at Gwen one last time and pressed that feeling down, tucking it deep—deep as the rage I carry within.
Gwen poked her head up and peered at the little bullfrog they held out. "Oh, that's cool," she said, "but don't think for a second we're keeping it as a pet."
Beatrice cupped the frog like a jewel thief with morals. "We can't keep him," she repeats, tragic. "But we can name him."
"Temporary name," Lucy says. "Lease-only."
"Sir Hopsalot," Beatrice tries.
"Too on the nose," Gwen says. "Also too on the… toes."
"Commander Ribbits," Lucy offers, deadpan.
I give three slow blinks for jokes. Approved.
Gwen wets her fingers in the creek and taps Beatrice's wrist. "Hands damp, then quick look. No smushing. Amphibians have a PR team and they will come for us."
Beatrice solemnly dampens. The frog blinks with the gravity of a small god who has seen things. He inflates a little, unimpressed.
"Okay, Commander," Gwen tells him, "state your mission."
Lucy aims the flashlight just off to the side so the beam doesn't hit his eyes. "He says: I wish to be returned to my watery kingdom with honor and maybe two worms."
"Worms are off the table," Gwen decrees. "Honor we can do."
I lean forward an inch. The compass taps my chest: here. Beatrice lifts the frog closer for inspection. Cool skin, green like he stole color from leaves. I nod once—good. She grins, full wattage, then kneels and lets him settle into the grass.
"Return to the wild, Commander Ribbits," she intones.
He does not return. He thinks about it. Then, with a sudden plop like a punctuation mark, he tiptoes into the water and vanishes under a scribble of ripples.
"Promotion for bravery," Lucy says, saluting the dark.
Gwen thinks for a second. "Seven minutes."
"Plenty of time to find a second frog," Beatrice says, already scanning.
"Or to not press our luck," Gwen counters. She tucks the blanket around both of us against a breeze that's more suggestion than weather. "We got our creek moment."
Beatrice sighs dramatically but accepts it, kicking water at nothing. Lucy herds her back toward us with a flashlight flick like she's moving geese.
They climb the short slope. Beatrice leans on the rail next to me, damp and proud. "Did you see his little feet? He had excellent toes."
"Top-tier toes," Lucy agrees.
"Toe-tier," Gwen says.
"Pun violation," Lucy objects. "One warning."
Gwen presses her shoulder into mine, just a touch. "You okay?" she asks quietly, not a test, just mapping.
One blink. Then another for brave. The coins in my stomach have settled into a tidy stack. The furnace is a pilot light, on purpose.
"Time," Lucy says, glancing at Gwen. "Four minutes to beat the mosquito arbitration council.", she responds with a yawn.
"Council is already in session," Beatrice complains, swatting. "They're debating my kneecaps."
Gwen unlocks the brakes. "Retreat in good order."
We reverse the route: grass to path, path to curb cut. Lucy takes spotter, Beatrice walks point with the dolphin flashlight that emits mostly hope. Gwen tilts at the dip like she's been driving chairs her whole life. The chair hums its one old note. The night smells like damp earth and laundry vents and the faint sugar of someone else's dessert. The compass is small and obedient against my shirt.
By the time we reach the porch, the door opens on a tide of house-warmth and voices.
"How many frogs," Frank asks, "and do any of them require their own room?"
"No frogs," Gwen says, steering me in. "One commander released with honors."
"Correct procedure," Carl approves. "Local habitat appreciates your service."
"Hands," Sandra says, pointing toward the sink.
"Soap," Natalie adds, handing over a towel. "And sleeves up. Amphibians are cute; stomach bugs are not."
"Frog salute," Lucy reports, heading for the towel. "No frog residues."
Beatrice plants herself in the doorway, dripping pride. "We named him Commander Ribbits."
"Temporary name," Gwen clarifies.
"Lease-only," Lucy echoes.
"Could've kept him," Frank argues. "Teach him tricks. Taxes. The grill."
"No," three adults say at once.
"It's actually—" Carl begins.
"—illegal," Natalie finishes. "Also rude."
"Rude to raccoons," Lucy adds, purely for brand consistency.
"Raccoons do not own frogs," Carl says, personally offended on the frogs' behalf.
"Regional variance," Lucy shrugs.
Gwen parks me near the couch, sets the brake, and slips the blanket into the tote. She checks the footrests like she can't help herself and then finally looks up, satisfied.
"How was it?" Frank asks me, softer than his jokes.
One blink. Good. He gives me a solemn chef's nod like I just reviewed his menu.
"See?" Gwen says. "Five stars. Would creek again."
"Tomorrow we are not creeking," Sandra says, wiping water off Beatrice's calves. "Tomorrow is chores and errands and using up the cilantro."
"Cilantro is soap," Lucy whispers, traumatized.
"That's genetic," Gwen says brightly, delighted to have Science again.
"Science is banned after nine," Natalie says, glancing at the clock. "Teeth. Then bed."
"Counterproposal," Frank says, pointing at the ceiling as if truth lives up there. "Pancakes."
"Denied," Sandra rules, already herding cups. "Kitchen is closed."
"Metaphorical pancakes?" Frank tries.
"Metaphorical bed," Natalie counters.
"Fizz-juice," Beatrice inserts, because the debate requires it.
"Soda," Natalie says.
"Pop," Lucy says.
"Carbonated beverage," Carl says, because the ecosystem demands balance.
Gwen looks at me, eyebrow up. I roll my eyes big and obvious. The room laughs in that with-me way that puts the roof back where it belongs.
"Case closed," Sandra says, flipping off the string lights one by one until the living room holds a softer darkness. "Teeth, shuffle to the car, then bed, then tomorrow."
Tomorrow sits in the air and doesn't make anyone flinch.
Gwen leans down, quick, and squeezes my shoulder. "We'll start the sign book the next chance we get" she says. "I'm gonna make you fluent just to annoy my Dad."
"Highly targetable," Frank says, aggrieved. "I contain multitudes."
"Multitudes are Latin for 'hush,'" Lucy informs him, already halfway down the hall.
We break like a huddle. Water to towel, towel to sink, sink to goodnight. As Beatrice and her parents leave for the night. Grandpa's hand finds the chair back for one breath as he passes—hover, blink, and were off. The compass sits quiet. My chest does not.
"Ben," Gwen says, pausing at the hall turn. "Good night."
One blink. Good night.
"Goodnight Ben, nice meeting you" Lucy says as she follows after Gwen.
They start bickering about who left the light on in the bathroom, whether toothbrush caps are tyranny, and if pajamas count as real clothes (no, sometimes, and absolutely not). It's nothing that matters and everything that does. I let it wash over me, the easy noise of a house I didn't know I could want.
The creek keeps whispering in the back of my head. The frog is fine. So am I, or close enough to aim at it.
"Pancakes?" Frank tries one last time, heroic.
"Bed," two voices say, harmonized.
We roll toward the quiet end of the night, the roof steady over us calling away, the stars—fake and real—exactly where we left them.
...
#Max Pov-Thirty Minutes ago#
The door shuts behind the kids and the creek takes them, soft as a tide. The house exhales: grill smoke thinning, ice settling in glasses, the string lights buzzing a quiet little complaint.
My phone vibrates in my pocket like a fish trying to change its mind. Unknown number. I step into the kitchen where the AC hum can keep a secret and thumb it on.
"Max Tennyson?"
"Speaking."
"Sergeant Alvarez, Wilshire PD—Delaware. Sorry to call late. We have preliminary findings."
I brace a palm on the counter. It's cool and real. "Go ahead."
"No signs of forced entry," he says. No pried latch, no hacked sensor, no footprints that don't belong. "Windows were intact prior to detonation. Door jambs clean. Security system logs show a normal disarm before the event—house code, not a bypass."
I look through the doorway at the family—Frank pretending not to hover, Natalie catching my eye like a net, Sandra already reaching for the notebook she always has, she bought a new one. Carl sets his drink down without looking at it. None of them ask me what the voice is saying. They can read a storm map on my face.
Alvarez keeps going. "Given the lack of external breach and the fact that we've ruled out a spontaneous mechanical failure, the only working theory that fits the scene is someone with access. I need you to hear me: we're not charging anyone. We're not naming him publicly. But on paper, Ben's father is currently our only viable suspect."
Something old and ugly tries to stand up in me. I make it sit. "Noted," I say, because I can't say what I want to say.
He clears his throat. "One more thing: the medical examiner is holding the body a bit longer. We need to complete a few more analyses before we can release Kaitlyn. I'm sorry. That also means the funeral can't be scheduled for at least a week."
I close my eyes and count like I've been teaching a boy to count: in for three, out for four. "You'll call me. Immediately, and we weren't planning on the funeral for another month anyways, Ben needs... some time"
"Yes, sir. And when Ben's ready, we'll need a formal statement. No pressure tonight. Let him… breathe."
"Copy that."
We hang up. The kitchen keeps humming like nothing happened. I stare at the grout line in the counter until it stops being a crack and goes back to being a line.
"Max?" Natalie's voice is a hand on my sleeve.
I give them the facts—no breaking and entering, access code used, funeral delayed—small and even, like cutting up bad news for people who already learned how to chew.
Frank swears into his palm, the quiet kind that breaks your heart because he's trying not to make it mine. "They think—?"
"They think what the evidence thinks," I say. "Today."
Carl's jaw goes stone. He stares at the deck post like it did this. "So what do we tell the kids, what do we tell Ben?"
"Nothing tonight," Sandra says, pen already moving. "We let them keep their moment, their creek."
Natalie nods. "We circle wagons. No TV, no 'ding' of news alerts. If anybody calls, we're a voicemail."
"And if the boy asks?" Frank says, softer. "You know he's got a radar."
"We tell him we love him," I say, because that's a true thing we can afford. "And that the grown-ups are handling the grown-up mess. We don't say suspect. We don't say never. We give him a handrail. We give him the support he needs right now."
Sandra taps her notes. "I'll call the funeral home in the morning, let them know we understand the delay. Start a list: paperwork, who to contact, what to freeze. We keep his days normal where we can. PT. Breakfast. That sign book."
"Lucy's with them?" Natalie asks.
I listen. Through the screen and the evening and the ordinary, I can hear Beatrice's trumpet of a voice: "We caught a frog!" Gwen's answering laugh is softer. The sound stretches across the grass and hooks itself to the kitchen light.
"She is," I say. "They're okay."
Frank rubs his face like he can scuff the world into behaving. "If they print his father's name—"
"They won't. Not yet," I tell him. "And if they do, they talk to me, not to Ben. That's the rule."
Everyone nods, a quiet vote. The kind that makes a roof.
Out back, the kids' footsteps climb the slope. The door will open and they'll bring the night in with them—damp cuffs, the story of a frog promoted to commander, the kind of bickering that keeps a heart from emptying out.
I slide the phone face-down on the counter and put my hand there beside it, fingers spread like I'm measuring something. Maybe I am. The distance between what I can fix and what I can't. The length of thirty minutes at a creek.
"Tomorrow," Sandra says, closing her notebook. It's not a question.
"Tomorrow," I echo.
The latch clicks. The door swings. The house fills with night air and kid noise and the easy chaos that, for right now, is ours to keep. I square my mouth into the shape of a welcome and go meet them at the door.
...
Grandpa had already set me in the back of the RV, bottom-left bunk. He was snoring on the couch—the kind that apparently turns into a bed if you bribe it—the sound soft and tidal. I leaned against the wall, the dim lamp puddling light over the sign language book Gwen gave me. I don't know why, but I wanted to eat it whole. Hands, alphabet, numbers, "thank you," "please," "help." My fingers fumbled; the shapes felt like puzzles I could solve with enough tries.
I practiced quietly: B–E–N in slow blocky fingerspelling, then G–W–E–N, then the flat hand from chin for thank you, the thumbs-up on a palm for help. The casts tugged at my calves when I shifted; the RV clicked and hummed like it was remembering old trips without me.
The compass touched my chest when I breathed deeper. Tap. Not a warning. A here.
I shut the book and slid it right beside me. The lamp got dimmer without moving; maybe my eyes just got louder. I made a little tent with the blanket over my lap and stared at my hands.
Last time the green took everything with it—noise, air, sense—until there was only light and hurt and somebody yelling like the words could be a rope. I wanted something smaller tonight. Not a flood. A pilot light.
In for three. Out for four. PT counting, repurposed.
Nothing. Just fingers, knuckles, a nick on my middle finger that refused to heal straight.
I tried again. In for three. Out for four. I pictured the creek whispering and not swallowing. The string stars over the living room. Gwen's head on my shoulder like a settled book.
My fingers buzzed for half a second—faint soda under a lid—and then dropped it like they were embarrassed.
"Okay," I told them, not out loud. "We can do 'embarrassed.' We can do 'again.'"
I signed help in the dark. Thumb on palm, lift. I signed please, slow circle. I signed yes with a little fist nod that felt like permission.
I thought about my mother again, about my dad, what he did to her, what he made her do, what she did to me... That furnace in my ribs came back, hard, harder than the thought of Gwen.
A heat gathered under my nails. Tiny. Stubborn. I didn't shove. I… invited, the way you do with shy cats and hard mornings. I thought about green—not neon, not the hospital kind—grass green, Bellwood green when the wind bosses it around. I imagined a dial from off to almost.
The hair on my arms lifted. A metal taste ticked the back of my tongue. Then—there: a hush of light caught behind skin, too faint to brag. I cupped my hands under the blanket like I was sheltering a match, and the glow steadied. No flare. No rush. Just a small, offended swamp-fire deciding I could have this much.
The compass didn't tap. Maybe it was listening.
Almost on its own, my brain turned toward my legs—the parts inside the casts, the animal names PT gave them, the bones that had been weather. I pictured them lined up neat, like Sandra's plates, ready to be useful.
Instinct beat thought to the door. I slid my hands down, careful, like the light could bruise, and set my glowing fingers along the edges of plaster. Slow circles. Hello, not hurry. Left first, then right, keeping the breaths honest—three in, four out.
For a heartbeat: nothing.
Then a fizz lit under the left cast, tiny as a secret. Not pain. Not heat. Like a thousand carbonated dots waking up. The right leg followed a second later, late to the party, tingly in a way that made me want to hold still and memorize it.
The glow in my fingers wanted more. It pressed. I signed later in my head and eased it back to friendly. The tingling kept running quiet circuits—calf to knee to hip, back again—like mapping something that forgot it was mine.
I flattened my palms and let the buzz talk. The RV breathed. Grandpa turned over, the couch mattress complaining in its language. The compass sat light against my chest.
Tomorrow had teeth, but they didn't bite. Tomorrow was help and thank you and yes in a new alphabet. Tomorrow was this, too—learning the dial, not the flood.
The green thinned to ordinary skin. The tingling didn't. It hummed in both legs, low and certain, like the first note of a song I was finally going to learn.
I lay back and let it stay. A round, solid purpose settled in beside the sign book: teach my hands to talk. Teach the light to listen.
In for three. Out for four. Under the blanket, something answered from my bones.