Chapter Seventy Seven

Hope.

Damian moved into a bedroom downstairs while he recovered. I slept beside him, taking care not to touch the still tender spot the bullet had ripped into. I knew he felt pain, but he insisted on less and less medication, saying he could manage it. Within a day of being home, he could walk on his own to the bathroom, although it wore him out.

“I hate this,” he grumbled a week later after one of his visits to the bathroom.

“I hate being weak.”

I tucked the blanket up to his waist. “You are getting stronger every day.”

“Not fast enough.”

“You hate having someone else take care of you. You are so used to taking care of everyone and everything and being in charge of it all but can’t stand to be in a position where you need others yourself.”

He studied me, then looked beyond me to the waning light outside the window.

“Let’s sit outside.”

“I’ll get your wheelchair.” I had already stood to unfold it. He hadn’t used it except for the time they had rolled him in here in it.

“No.”