Samuel
The garage has always been one of Raven’s favorite places.
Long before she was old enough to drive, she spent her afternoons wandering between the bays, sitting on workbenches and toolboxes while the guys argued over engines and parts.
Most of the sounds that make newcomers flinch, the clatter of metal, the sharp whine of a drill, the low rumble of a bike coming to life, are just background noise to her.
She grew up here.
This morning she’s sitting on top of my workbench with one leg folded beneath her and the other swinging slowly over the edge while she cradles a paper cup of coffee between her hands.
An old country song drifts from the radio mounted on the wall of the garage. Raven sings along the way she always has, her voice soft and just a little off key. She never quite lands on the note she’s aiming for, but that’s never stopped her before.
Usually she sings louder than this, especially when no one else is around, but today the melody drifts through the garage more like a murmur. Every few lines, she loses the tune entirely and hums until she finds it again.
I keep working on the engine in front of me while listening to her behind me. For a few minutes, it almost feels like nothing has changed.
Knox is in the office arguing with a supplier on the phone, his voice rising and falling through the open doorway, and outside the bay, someone revs an engine before killing it again.
Raven reaches the chorus of the song and misses the note completely.
I glance over my shoulder. “You’re absolutely murdering that song.”
She looks up mid-line and grins like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
“I prefer the term artistic interpretation.”
“That’s not interpretation. That’s a crime.”
She laughs softly and taps the heel of her boot against the side of the bench. “I’ve been singing in here for twenty years, Samuel Morgan. You’re just noticing now?”
That part is probably true.
Before the diagnosis, I heard things like that without really registering them. They were part of the background of our life together, as ordinary as the hum of the radio or the smell of oil in the air.
Now I notice everything.
Raven starts singing again when the next verse comes on, quieter this time, her voice slipping in and out of the melody while she watches me work.
Normally she’d keep going until the song ended, sometimes even launching into the next one if she liked it enough. Today she only makes it halfway through the verse. The words trail off without warning.
When I glance back again, she has leaned forward slightly with her elbows resting on her knees, one hand pressing lightly against her stomach. Her coffee cup is now on the bench beside her.
“You feeling sick?” I ask quietly.
She exhales through her nose before answering. “A little.”
The word comes out casually, the same way she’s answered that question a dozen times in the last few weeks, but the way her shoulders sink forward tells a different story.
“When did it start?” I ask.
“This morning,” she says, brushing it off with a small shrug. “It’ll settle soon.”
Maybe it will. Some days, the symptoms move through her like weather, arriving suddenly and leaving just as quickly. Other days they linger longer, stretching the hours in ways that wear her down until even simple things become difficult.
I set the wrench down and wipe my hands on a rag before walking over to the bench.
“Come on,” I say gently. “I’m taking you to get something to eat.”
She smiles faintly at that, though the expression fades sooner than it would’ve a few months ago.
“Food sounds terrible right now,” she admits.
“I know,” I tell her, a little softer this time. “Just try something small.”
She watches me for a second. “You’re not going to drop this, are you?”
“No.”
A small smile tugs at her mouth. “You’re very bossy today.”
“That’s because you’re sitting on my workbench looking like you might pass out.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
She shakes her head but slides forward anyway, swinging her legs toward the floor. For a second, everything looks normal. But the second her boots touch the concrete, the color drains from her face so quickly that my stomach tightens.
Her hand catches the edge of the workbench. I'm beside her before she can say a word, one hand settling at her waist as the other closes gently around her arm.
She leans into me, her eyes slipping shut. Her fingers tighten against the bench while she breathes slowly through her nose.
Around us, the clubhouse carries on as if nothing has changed. The radio rolls into another song. Somewhere down the hall, Knox's voice rises, followed by a burst of laughter from one of the guys.
Raven doesn't seem to hear any of it.
I brush my thumb lightly across her side. "Talk to me."
She takes one more careful breath before opening her eyes. "Just got a little dizzy," she says softly.
Her voice is steady, but I can feel the effort beneath it where my hand rests against her arm. I stay where I am until the color begins to return to her face and the tension slowly leaves her shoulders.
"Better?"
She nods. “Better.”
"Barely,” I reply.
A faint smile touches her mouth. "Barely still counts."
It should make me smile.
It doesn't.
“Come on.” I lace my fingers through hers. "I’m taking you home."
We start toward the front doors, my hand never leaving hers.
"I thought we were getting dinner."
"We are." She glances up at me. "Just not at a restaurant."
A small crease forms between her brows. "I can still go out."
"I know."
She searches my face for a long second, weighing whether to argue. Then her shoulders soften. "Home sounds nice."
Outside, the bike waits exactly where we left it, the late afternoon sun glinting off the chrome.
I stop.
Raven follows my gaze, then looks back at me.
Neither of us says anything.
An hour ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about putting her on the back. Now all I can see is her hand catching the edge of the workbench. Her eyes closing. The room tilting beneath her.
She'll tell me she's fine.
She'll climb on anyway.
But I can't let her.
"Wait here."
She watches me for a moment but doesn't ask why.
I turn and head back inside. Knox looks up as soon as I step through the door.
His eyes search my face. "What happened?"
"Can I borrow your truck?"
Knox's eyes drift to the front window. Raven stands beside the bike, one hand resting on the seat. He looks back at me, concern settling across his face.
Without a word, he pulls his keys from his pocket and tosses them over. "Take care of her."
I catch them. "I will."
Neither of us says another word.
When I walk back outside, Raven hasn’t moved. She notices the keys in my hand.
"What happened?"
I unlock the truck and pull open the passenger door.
"I changed my mind."
She studies me for a long moment. She knows.
Without another word, she climbs in.
The drive home is quiet. Raven rests her head against the window, her eyes drifting closed now and then. Every few minutes, I catch myself looking over. Just to make sure she's still there. To make sure she's okay.
The doctors told us this would happen.
Fatigue.
Dizziness.
Days when her body would quietly begin asking more of her than it could give.
I thought I understood what that meant.
I didn't.
Knowing it was coming is nothing like watching it arrive.
When we pull into the driveway, I cut the engine and walk around to open her door before she can reach for the handle herself.
She smiles at me, tired but still unmistakably Raven.
I offer my hand, and she takes it.
Nothing around us looks different. But everything has changed.
This is the first day I can see it.
And I know it won't be the last.