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The McCall Initiative Episodes 7-8
The McCall Initiative Episodes 7-8
The McCall Initiative Episodes 7-8
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The McCall Initiative Episodes 7-8

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With the fight against Sarto intensifying, Logan and Piper face the daunting task of convincing President Cooper to trust potential allies. Assistance comes from an unlikely source, but when the team receives shocking news, Piper is forced to make a choice that may cost the rebels every bit of the progress they’ve fought so long and hard for.

This collection includes episodes 7-8 (Alliance, Rebellion) of the ten-part, first season of The McCall Initiative serial. Approximately 361 pages or 119,500 words.

Season 1 is now complete!

LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 22, 2016
ISBN9781310991585
The McCall Initiative Episodes 7-8
Author

Lisa Nowak

In addition to being a YA author, Lisa Nowak is a retired amateur stock car racer, an accomplished cat whisperer, and a professional smartass. She writes coming-of-age books about kids in hard luck situations who learn to appreciate their own value after finding mentors who love them for who they are. She enjoys dark chocolate and stout beer and constantly works toward employing wu wei in her life, all the while realizing that the struggle itself is an oxymoron.Lisa has no spare time, but if she did she’d use it to tend to her expansive perennial garden, watch medical dramas, take long walks after dark, and teach her cats to play poker. For those of you who might be wondering, she is not, and has never been, a diaper-wearing astronaut. She lives in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her husband, several feline companions, and two giant sequoias.

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    The McCall Initiative Episodes 7-8 - Lisa Nowak

    Dedication

    This series is dedicated to Oregon’s finest governor, Tom McCall, who harkened in a wave of environmental awareness in the late ’60s and early ’70s that transformed the state and influenced the entire nation.

    Among many other accomplishments, McCall was responsible for:

    • The first Bottle Bill in the nation. Nine other states have since adopted this legislation, and more are currently in the process of doing so.

    • The Beach Bill, which gives the public access to all beaches.

    • Land use planning, which protects the farm and forest land Oregon’s economy relies on and prevents urban sprawl.

    • The Bicycle Bill, which dedicates 1% of transportation funds to bike and pedestrian paths

    • Vortex 1, the first and only state-sponsored rock concert.

    Tom McCall was a creative problem solver who believed in making short-term sacrifices for the long-term greater good. To learn more about this amazing man, visit the Tom McCall Legacy Project’s website: http://www.tommccall.org/

    "Heroes are not giant statues framed against a red sky. They are people who say; This is my community, and it’s my responsibility to make it better."

    - Governor Tom McCall

    Cascadia, 2063

    The McCall Initiative

    Episode 7: Alliance

    Chapter 1

    Piper

    I’m still staring at the patch of blue sky outside the hotel window, performing mental CPR on the flat-lining rebellion, when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Hope whisks through me. Maybe Logan shook himself out of his slump and is coming up to talk.

    Piper? Bailey calls, shattering my optimism.

    In here.

    She pops her head through the doorway. Well, that’s the end of soccer camp. I’m all yours now. Except for maybe the occasional game … and practice … and keeping an eye on Dad’s properties. She sighs. So maybe I’m half yours.

    Ducking below the level of the windows, she slinks over to the corner to sit at a right angle to me, her back against the adjoining wall. Our feet bump together as she kicks off her sandals.

    I should probably get back downstairs, I say. I need to check on Jefferson.

    Nah, he’s fine. Just kinda wiped out. You let him get up or something?

    No. He had a meltdown. I explain how he tore me one when I wouldn’t give him the tablet, and then backtrack to fill her in on Sarto’s threat to kill Logan and Zoey’s dad.

    "Mierda, she swears, eyes wide. No wonder you look so whupped."

    An unexpected swell of emotion rises up to choke me. For a second, I think I’m going to start bawling. I turn away, take a deep breath, and tell her how Zoey reacted. How the whole thing affected Logan.

    Bailey might not get how important it is, but moments like this are what I need her for. She’s always listened, no matter how little sense my geekiness made to her. Sure, she teases me, but it’s not mean. Not like how other kids used to be when they went after me, making me feel defective because I didn’t get their stupid pop culture references and never figured out how to tone down my passion about medicine. Bailey might rib me, but I’ve always known that underneath it, she loves me for exactly who I am.

    Sheesh, she says when I run out of words. You want me to straighten Zoey out? I can rough her up a little. I bet it wouldn’t take much to convince her that the White Eagle ghosts are real.

    A laugh slips out, which feels good after the day I’ve had. I shake my head. No matter how much she might be rattling Logan, he’d still fight to the death for her, and I can’t afford to lose you. You’re the only one around here who’s acting normal these days.

    Of course, up until she stuck her foot in her mouth talking to Jefferson last night, she wasn’t. This could make for an awkward moment, but Bailey skirts around it, poking the side of my shoe with her big toe. "If you think I’m normal, you really are in bad shape."

    That’s too close to the truth to be funny. We’re all in bad shape, and the rebellion is practically on life support. My lungs go a little breathless as I think of the impossible task I’m facing. We’ve got to do something. Logan’s like a zombie, Sarto’s about to knock the cheese off Jefferson’s cracker, and we’re running out of food.

    Don’t you worry about the food, Bailey says. I’ve got that covered.

    I shoot her a look. And how long do you think it’ll be before your mom and dad notice you’re buying groceries for four people?

    I’ll work it out.

    Which means she’s winging this. We need a real plan, Bailey. Not just for food, but for the rebellion. The problem is, I can’t think of anything.

    She shakes her head. It’s not your job to think up plans.

    It is if no one else is going to do it.

    Logan will do it. Just give him a chance to get back on the horse. This thing with his dad threw him pretty hard.

    Yeah, it did. I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the wall. There’s got to be a way to get things moving. I just need to figure it out.

    It’ll be okay, Piper. Jefferson’s alive, and Logan and Zoey didn’t get nabbed. That’s what’s important, right?

    It should be, but after what happened earlier, it doesn’t feel like enough.

    Bailey jostles my foot. Hey, she says, her voice perking up, you know what I was thinking about today?

    What? The word slides out flat and lifeless.

    We’re making history, just like Lewis and Clark, and Thomas Jefferson, and all those ancient dudes. Someday, they’ll be writing about us, and you’ll be the most legendary of all.

    Uh huh, I say, too exhausted to feel her enthusiasm. But she’s got a point. No matter how all this shakes out, what we’re doing now is going to be part of Cascadia’s history.

    Bailey hikes an eyebrow. Kinda brain-shattering, isn’t it? They’ll probably name streets and counties and banks after you. Maybe even a medical school. She grins and nudges my foot again. You better make something of your life, girl, or a hundred years from now people will be saying, ‘Man, that Piper Hall had so much potential, but she totally blew it.’

    I sigh and look back out the window. That’s just one more pressure—one more reason for me to light a fire under this rebellion. If I can’t, we’re going down as the bad guys.

    * * *

    When I trudge downstairs into the stinky, unrelenting darkness, Jefferson’s in a spacey, semi-awake state, not really sleeping, but too wiped out to read or mess around on the Net. He’s spent half the day like this, and I’m grateful because it makes it easier to filter the information he’s getting. Eventually, he’s going to notice that we don’t have as much of a handle on things as I’ve led him to believe. I’m so discouraged I’m almost ready to confess my worries about the rebellion to him, but he had enough of a shock when he found out about the Japanese deal. He doesn’t need to know how hopeless I’m feeling.

    Bailey reads to him, and I do what I can to make him comfortable, icing his leg and cushioning it with pillows when he shifts to lie on his side—something he can’t tolerate for long. Zoey’s still upstairs, probably plotting torture scenarios for all of us, and Logan’s slouched in the booth I use for a desk, staring at the computer. He’s barely said a word since we’ve come downstairs.

    After the conversation I had with Bailey earlier, I’ve realized she’s right about one thing— Logan’s the one who rocks the strategy stuff. If I can’t come up with a solution on my own, I’ll have to convince him to help.

    It isn’t until after Bailey leaves for the night that I get a chance to talk to him alone. When he heads for the kitchen, I follow.

    He goes to the sink to run water into a glass.

    Hey, I say softly, my shoulder against the doorjamb.

    He turns around, looking like he’s been struggling to juggle ninety-nine chainsaws, and I just threatened to toss him number one hundred.

    I hate to push him when he so obviously needs a break, but what choice do I have? I think we should talk about the rebellion.

    Logan shuts off the water and takes a long drink, standing at an angle to me, so our eyes don’t meet.

    I’m worried about Jefferson. It would help a lot if he could see that we have a plan.

    Yeah. Logan looks into his half-empty glass, swishing the water around. The trouble is, until we get outside help, our hands are tied. We need an ally in Congress.

    A few days ago, when Jefferson was still so sick, I thought that, too. But now I’m afraid to even mention the idea to him. You know he won’t go for that.

    Logan glances up, his eyes two chips of ice. Then we have to convince him.

    Even though his tone is calm and level, his words zap me almost as hard as Zoey’s nasty ones did earlier. I’m not going to hassle him. He can’t handle it.

    Then there isn’t much we can do. At least not until he’s in better shape. He can’t make a public address looking like he does now.

    Which isn’t what I’m pushing for. And Logan has to know that. I watch him from the doorway, wondering how to get what I want—how to give him what he needs. Maybe the pressure is just too much. He’s been running this thing on his own since the beginning.

    I can help, you know. You shouldn’t have to be responsible for everything. We’re a team.

    Logan turns away, one hand gripping the glass and the other clenching at his side. He shuts his eyes, his Adam’s apple dipping.

    Way to go, Piper. That really helped. I take a step toward him. Are you okay?

    His head jerks in a slight, abrupt shake. Not an answer, but a warning. And I know where he’s at—that place where the slightest touch will unravel you—so I don’t go any closer.

    I stand staring, not knowing what to do next. It was one thing to reassure him when he was worried about Zoey’s health, or when his dad called the car home in the middle of the raid at the animal clinic. I even did okay after he found out about the arrest. But that was only because he was willing to talk to me, and his dad’s letter said the stuff he couldn’t. This is a whole ’nother deal. I don’t know how to get a guy to open up about what he’s feeling. I don’t have the words to put him at ease. It’s like every other girl came with a training manual on how to handle stuff like this, but they left mine out of the box when they packaged me up for delivery.

    I chew my lip, aching with the need to do something. You’ve got to be so tired and sad. Let me help. Talk to me. The words feel clumsy on my tongue. Clumsy and stupid. If I were Bailey, I’d know how to say them right.

    Logan stiffens. "I’m fine. I just need to get things figured out. His fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going white. I just need you to give me some space so I can get things figured out."

    A chill scuttles up my spine then seeps out to shiver across every square inch of my skin.

    Okay, I say, backing through the doorway. I might not know how to do the girlfriend thing, but I know how to leave people alone.

    Chapter 2

    Piper

    I can’t stand to think about what happened in the kitchen, so I focus on the one thing I know I won’t botch—taking care of my patient. I’m down to three antibiotics now, since Jefferson had the last dose of cefotamycin right after dinner. By tomorrow night we’ll finish the amoxicycline, and the ciprocillin will run out on Sunday. He’ll get a full course of all those, but the telazoleacine is supposed to be administered over ten days, and I only have enough saline for eight. I feel a little uneasy about that. For all I know, it’s what knocked out the infection, and stopping it too soon could cause a relapse. But it isn’t like there’s anything I can do about it.

    I’m also worried because I haven’t been able to get Jefferson up and moving yet. The longer a patient lies in bed, the higher the risk of complications, but the sepsis and lack of food really tanked his strength, and it’s not like I’ve got the resources I’d have in a hospital. Besides, he still won’t even look at his leg. How’s he supposed to use crutches if he can’t watch where he’s going?

    And then there’s the weakness. It’s normal after what he’s been through, but he’d be getting over it faster if the pain weren’t sapping his energy and keeping him from sleeping. He doesn’t like to talk about that. It’s only pain, Piper, he says whenever I ask. It’s not like it’s going to kill me. I’m having a hard time even getting enough information out of him to determine whether it’s his residual limb that’s hurting or if it’s phantom pain. He seems to have the most trouble with it at night, though, which is right in line with what I know about phantom limb syndrome.

    Once he finally dozes off, I attempt a little more research, but I don’t learn anything that’ll help. And I’m not particularly successful at the other thing I’ve been trying to do—distract myself from the sting of Logan’s words. Obviously, he doesn’t want my help, but where does that leave me? Where does it leave the rebellion?

    * * *

    Breakfast is a bowl of cold cereal because Logan is keeping to himself. Even though my heart’s still giving off feeble wisps of smoke, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. He looks so miserable.

    When Jefferson and I are done eating, I go upstairs just long enough to take a shower and catch a nap that ends in another nightmare. I’d like to spend the whole day on the second floor, soaking in the sunlight and trying to forget Logan’s snub, but Jefferson’s so bummed about the wave energy deal that I head downstairs to stick close to him instead.

    He can’t stop obsessing. At first I’m not sure why it’s this he’s distraught about when Sarto’s done so many nasty things. And then, in a flash, I get it. Jefferson can’t face what’s really bothering him, so all his pain, worry, and frustration are being diverted into this safe topic. I’m not sure if it’s a step in the right direction or a sign of trouble, but I try to reassure myself that at least he’s found a way to process some of what he’s feeling.

    While Jefferson bemoans the Japanese agreement, I half-listen and half-worry about the rebellion. I still don’t have a clue about how to get things moving, and there’s no way I’m going to mention it to Logan again.

    After lunch, Jefferson nods off. When the pain wakes him up only an hour later, he starts bugging me about getting out of bed.

    Let’s wait until Bailey gets here, I say. I want to work on having you stand up today, but I’ll need her help.

    Logan, who’s sitting at my desk, looks up from whatever he’s reading on the tablet. I can give you a hand.

    The sound of his voice raises a welt on my heart. I glance his way, wary, and Jefferson’s eyes sweep from me to him in a what’s-up-with-you-two look. Even if I were alone with Jefferson, I don’t think I’d explain. He’s got enough trouble without having to worry about fixing the rebellion—or my relationship with Logan.

    What do you need me to do? Logan asks.

    I turn away, busying myself with pulling the sheet back and arranging the IV tubing so it won’t tangle or hang up. Get on his other side and help me lift.

    Logan waits until I’ve got Jefferson’s legs swung around to hang off the edge of the bed before silently positioning himself. I don’t let my eyes meet his.

    Ready? I ask Jefferson.

    I’ve been ready for two days, he says. But his eyes are focused straight ahead, not on the floor where they should be.

    Even though I want to tell him he’s got to watch what he’s doing, at this point it’s more important to get him standing than to force a reality check. And he should be fine as long as we’ve got a grip on him. Well, you’ll need to be careful, I hedge. You’re going to be weak and dizzy, and probably a little off balance because you’re about seven or eight pounds lighter on your left side. That’s going to take some getting used to.

    Jefferson nods, still staring at the opposite wall. Let’s do this.

    All right, on three, Logan and I are going to lift. I want you to push off with your foot and help out as much as you can, okay?

    Yeah.

    I give the countdown, and then we heave. Jefferson stifles a groan. His weight shifts wildly, and even with Logan’s help, it’s a challenge to keep him from falling over.

    Wh-whoa, Jefferson pants once he’s standing. He flexes his residual limb. So … weird.

    I crane my neck to look up at his face. It’s cramped with pain, and his eyes are scrunched shut. You all right?

    Y-yeah. He sways slightly, his arm trembling around my shoulder and his breath coming in gasps. G-get me the … crutches.

    You’re not ready for that. We’re going to stand here for a minute or two, and then you’re going to sit back down.

    I can … do it.

    Not until you’re willing to look where you’re going.

    Jefferson opens his eyes, but the spot he fixes on is clear across the room.

    Look, I say. I get how weird this has to be for you, especially on top of everything else. But if you can’t watch where you’re stepping, you’re going to fall and hurt yourself. You can’t afford that kind of setback.

    "I can … do this." His breath rasps like he’s been chasing Bailey across a soccer field.

    Maybe next time, but for now you need to lie back down.

    Logan, who hasn’t said a word, helps me ease him onto the edge of the bed. Jefferson doesn’t argue, but the look on his face is pure self-loathing.

    As Logan slips back over to my desk, Jefferson lowers himself against the pillows, his muscles shuddering on the brink of failure. I pull the sheet over him.

    Piper … he says, peering up at me with a sunken look. I know my leg … is gone. If that’s … what you’re worried about … I know it.

    A faint shimmer of hope ripples through me. I gently settle myself on the edge of the mattress. You won’t look at it.

    I know it’s gone. He holds my gaze, his breath slowly easing back into a normal rhythm.

    Okay, I say, nodding. That’s good. But I still think we need to take this slowly. If you fall and bust that incision open, I’m going to have to stitch it back up, and not only could that cause some serious scarring issues, but it would put you at risk for another infection.

    I don’t care. I’m sick of this.… It’s not getting better.

    "It is getting better. You just need to be patient with yourself."

    His face twists in disgust and he looks away.

    I rest my hand on his arm. Jefferson, you almost died. That isn’t the sort of thing you’re going to bounce back from in a couple of days, or even a couple of weeks.

    Or maybe not ever, he mutters at the ceiling.

    I raise an eyebrow. "Where’d that come from?"

    I’ve done my research. Some people never fully recover from sepsis.

    Just one more reason I wish he hadn’t gotten his hands on that tablet. Those people are a lot older than you, Jefferson, or they have chronic health problems.

    Not according to what I’ve read.

    Crap. He really has done his research. Two-thirds of people recover just fine, I say. There’s no reason to believe you won’t be one of them.

    His eyes snap back to meet mine, all dark and scowly. Then why am I still so damned weak?

    Because only a few days ago, you were in critical condition.

    That’s just the point. It’s been three whole days since I woke up, and I still can’t even stand on my own. Sarto’s destroying the country. I don’t have the luxury of taking weeks to recover.

    This audacity—this total denial—pries an annoyed grunt out of me. Like the laws of nature are going to suddenly re-write themselves for his convenience. Unfortunately, you don’t have much say in the matter.

    That’s not a solution!

    Jefferson’s shout zaps me like a live current, sending my skittish brain running for cover. "That’s because there is no solution! You just have to wait it out. What part of ‘almost died’ don’t you understand?"

    It isn’t until I see the look of shock on his face that I realize I’m yelling, too. My breath jolts to a stop. What the hell is wrong with me? That’s the second time in two days I’ve lost it with him.

    The frustration drains out of Jefferson in an instant, and he wilts back into the pillows. I-I’m sorry, Piper.

    Ah, hell. Shame completely drowns my irritation. I wallow in it for a few seconds, trying to muster the courage to admit I screwed up. I’m the one who should be apologizing. It’s only natural to be psyching a little after what you’ve been through.

    He’s used to being strong, healthy, and athletic—in complete control of his body. Of course he’s going to have a hard time accepting all this.

    Jefferson shakes his head. It’s falling apart. Everything’s falling apart, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

    But you will. I grip his hand, trying to squeeze some hope back into him. You really are getting better. Maybe you can’t see the improvements, but I can.

    It’s obvious from the doubt in his eyes that he isn’t convinced. He needs a goal. Something to focus on so he won’t get swallowed by all the pain and loss and frustration. Just give it a few more days, I say, and then we’ll do a broadcast, okay?

    He sighs and nods. I’m going to hold you to that.

    * * *

    When Bailey shows up in the afternoon, I’m still rattled by what happened with Logan. He’s been keeping to himself, and I’ve been steering clear of him because I’m sure my brain will implode if he snaps at me again. Zoey’s dodging both of us. She comes downstairs only to hang out with Jefferson, who she’s grudgingly forgiven for siding with Logan about their dad. I figure Jefferson’s the one person who might be able to talk sense into her, so I give them some space.

    While the two of them are messing around with the guitar, Bailey and I go upstairs. We sit down in the same corner as yesterday, and I spill about what happened after she left.

    Wow, she says, her eyes wide with sympathy. That must’ve hit you like a sucker punch.

    Yeah. I run my teeth over my lower lip, fighting the pain that wells up in me whenever I think of Logan’s words. All I want to do is help, but everything I say seems to push him further away. What am I doing wrong?

    Bailey laughs and kicks my foot. "Nothing. Sheesh, Piper. You’re taking this too personally. He’s obviously wonked about you."

    "But he told me to get lost, and I can’t. He’s hurting. Really hurting. I’ve never seen him like this." I don’t tell her that every time I catch a glimpse of him, I ache to reach out—to touch the back of his neck or grip his hand. Somehow, that seems too personal to put into words.

    Bailey’s expression softens. "Well, he probably does need some space. Not because he doesn’t want you around, but because he’s a strong, private kind of guy, and guys don’t like to talk about their problems. Give it a few days. He’ll figure things out."

    I sink back against the wall. We can’t afford that. We’ve got to do something to move the rebellion forward.

    Yeah … Bailey hesitates, giving me a look that winces with apology. I know you’re really worried about that, but if you try to push it with Logan, you’re only gonna put more pressure on him. This past week has sucked all of us dry. We need some time to recover. It’s not like it’ll kill you to wait another day or two.

    My gut twists. I know she’s right, but I don’t want to wait. I’m tired of waiting. I need things to happen now.

    * * *

    With help from Logan and Bailey, I get Jefferson out of bed every couple of hours. Each time, he can stay upright a little longer. He darts a few uneasy glances at his leg, but he doesn’t push me to let him use the crutches.

    He’s still obsessing about the Japanese deal, and now he’s throwing in some worries about his cat, Lawson, too. I don’t let myself lose patience with him again, even though I’m running out of reassuring things to say.

    After another night that’s filled with more pain than sleep, Jefferson tells me he’s ready to move forward. I’m done with lying here doing nothing. I’m going to walk today, even if it kills us both.

    Okay, I say. I think that’s a good idea.

    He stares at me, surprised, then struggles to sit up.

    It’s a relief when Logan comes over to help without me having to ask. I pull back the sheet and assist Jefferson in swinging his legs over the side of the stage. He hunches forward, hands gripping the mattress, and stares at the floor where his missing foot should be. After giving him a minute to process what he’s seeing, I put my hand on his shoulder. You ready?

    Yeah.

    I glance around the dim and shadowy room, wondering if I should have Logan set up the lights we use for filming, but decide Jefferson will probably be okay without them.

    He wants to pull a pair of cargo shorts on over his boxers, so I get those and crouch down, holding them out. It’s weird to see him lift his residual limb high, like his foot’s attached to it. Just one more reminder of how his brain is still wired for it to be there.

    He pulls the shorts up over his thighs.

    Okay, I say, We’re going to do this a little differently today. You’ll put your hands on my shoulders, and we’ll stand up at the same time. I’ll hold your pants up. You just worry about not falling over, all right?

    Yeah. He grips my shoulders, and together we heave his weight off the bed. Even though it’s a lot less than it used to be, I stagger because he can’t do much to manage it himself.

    The shorts don’t fit anymore, so Logan, who still hasn’t said a word, pulls off his belt and offers it to us.

    Thanks. I loop it through Jefferson’s pants while he clings to me, fingers biting into my shoulders. A month ago I never would’ve guessed I’d see Jefferson Cooper—president, athlete, and rock star—looking this frail. It’s unnerving.

    Logan steps up with the crutches, fitting one under Jefferson’s right arm and waiting for him to grip it before circling behind me to give him the other.

    As Jefferson lets go, my hands come up protectively, but he’s standing okay on his own. He’s steadier than he was yesterday. I step back and glance around the room. Logan, can you clear off my desk so we can sit there to eat breakfast? I’m not sure Jefferson will be able to make it to the powwow table.

    I don’t want to sit at your desk, Jefferson grumbles. I want to go outside.

    That’s at least four times the distance. I shake my head. I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. Let’s start with something closer.

    "I want to go outside, Piper."

    Jefferson …

    "I need to."

    His eyes rivet mine, and I recognize the same deep hunger that’s been gnawing away at me for more than seven weeks now.

    We could open the door, Logan suggests. If we stay quiet, it would probably be safe for a while.

    I bite my lip, considering. I might not be able to do anything about Jefferson’s pain, or how slowly he’s recovering, but this is one thing I can give him. No, he’s right. He needs to go outside.

    Logan studies Jefferson, who’s pale enough to act as a stand-in for one of those damn ghosts Bailey’s always yammering about. Maybe we could carry him. If we link our arms, we could form a seat. These last couple of suggestions total more than everything else he’s said to me since Friday night.

    No, Jefferson says. I can get there myself. He plants the tips of the crutches in front of him and swings his body forward. The muscles in his arms quiver, and he lets out a shaky, joyous laugh. I stick close as he takes another step, keeping my hands raised in front of him, like Mom used to do with Nick when he was learning to walk. At least I don’t have to worry about wrangling the IV. We ran out of Ringer’s last night.

    Within four steps, Jefferson’s shaking so bad I’m afraid he’s going to collapse.

    Logan, drag that chair over here, will you?

    I’m … fine … Piper, Jefferson pants.

    Uh huh. I hover close, ready to catch him if he stumbles. Or—more realistically—throw myself in front of him to break his fall.

    Jefferson gets about halfway to the door before he has to sit down. After a five-minute breather, he makes it the rest of the way and drops into the chair Logan’s brought along behind us.

    I reach for the door, and that old, familiar uneasiness shivers through me. But there’s no boogieman on the patio outside, just a tangle of overgrown shrubs and vines with sunlight sneaking through to dance a dappled pattern on the pavers. The scent of jasmine catches me off guard, triggering a wave of longing. As much as I’ve wanted to come out here, I still haven’t dredged up the courage. But for Jefferson, I’ll make myself do it.

    He gives one final push and gets through the door, where he collapses, panting, into the chair Logan has dragged outside. I grab another one and cushion it with a pillow so Jefferson can put his leg up.

    You comfortable? I keep my voice low as I take the crutches and lean them against the building.

    He draws a long, quivering breath and shuts his eyes, a blissful smile dimming the pain that seems permanently etched into his face. Yeah.… This is … perfect.

    The door creaks open, and Logan comes out with a chair for me. I’ll fix breakfast, he says, not quite making eye contact. When it’s ready, I’ll bring it out to you.

    Thanks. My fingers twitch, but I stop them before they can commit to reaching for his hand.

    As Logan goes inside, I sink into the chair, back to the wall so I can face the small break in the foliage that leads to the parking lot. I’m not feeling as paranoid as I expected, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let my guard down.

    I glance at Jefferson, who still has his eyes closed. I’m glad I let him come out here. We both need this. Did you know being around plants can be beneficial to the healing process? I ask. Studies show that patients who take care of them while they’re recovering get better faster.

    Yeah? Jefferson smiles, his breathing still a little ragged. Know where I can … get a hold of some pruning shears?

    I laugh, tilting my head back so I can stare up at the green-gold glow of sunlight shining through leaves. For a few minutes, we sit quietly, just listening to bird songs mingling with city noises and feeling the cool, fresh morning air on our skin.

    Finally, Jefferson sighs. I can’t believe how wiped out I am. It’s going to take me forever to get back into shape.

    You’re doing great, I say. The only thing you need to worry about is letting your body heal. I hear a voice out near the street—a mere fifty feet away—and jerk in that direction.

    Easy, Piper, they’re just walking by. No reason to panic.

    When I turn back, Jefferson is staring at his leg.

    You okay?

    Silence. He goes on staring, and uneasiness swells inside me.

    Jefferson?

    He shakes his head slightly, still not looking up.

    It had to be a shock, seeing it for the first time, I say.

    Still nothing.

    I can’t quite read his expression, so I’m not sure if I should keep talking or leave him be. But there are things he probably needs to hear. Things he might be ready for now.

    Bailey was a little clumsy in her delivery, I say, but she wasn’t wrong. With a good prosthesis, you’re going to be able to do everything you could before.

    Jefferson doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even move. I search his face for signs of distress, but I still can’t tell what he’s thinking.

    Sucking in a deep breath, I run for the edge of the cliff and plunge off. This is probably going to sound crazy, but having it happen this way might be a blessing. After that second debriding, you’d lost so much muscle there wasn’t any hope of you ever walking normally. I’ve read about injuries like this. People go through long, agonizing recoveries, and in the end they opt for amputation because they’re in constant pain and can’t do the things they used to.

    Finally, I get a nod. Relief flows through me in a warm rush. You want to talk about it?

    Nothing.

    Jefferson, you need to tell me what’s going on in your head. Maybe you’re coping just fine, but I don’t know because you won’t talk to me.

    He draws a shuddering breath and pries his gaze away from his leg. It sucks, he says, his eyes dull. This whole damn thing sucks. But I should think that much would be obvious.

    A surge of empathy closes my throat so I can only get one word out. Yeah.

    Jefferson shakes his head, looking back down at his leg. It’s definitely going to take some getting used to. He sighs and then lets out a bitter laugh. Guess I better get with it. It’s not like this stump is going to spontaneously sprout a new foot.

    Residual limb. The words spring out of my mouth without permission. Instantly, I want to smack myself upside the head.

    What? Jefferson glances at me.

    I feel twenty kinds of stupid, but now that I’ve said it, I’ve got to follow through. Technically, the term is ‘residual limb.’

    Jefferson eyes narrow. It’s a goddamn stump, Piper.

    Of course. A flush of embarrassment sears my face. It’s yours. You can call it whatever you want.

    But he’s focused on his leg again, and he’s not listening. Unwrap it, he orders.

    This catches

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