Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I don’t know, man.” James, his PT, shook his head, arms crossed, and one hip leaning against the leather-covered table. He tapped the papers meticulously stacked by Miles’s right foot. “This? In less than two months?”
Miles gritted his teeth. “I can do it.”
James pressed his lips together, then met his eyes, his gaze direct and honest. “If you go too hard, you’ll slow your progress.”
“Not this again,” he groused, then sat up, bending his good knee and resting his good arm on it. “There isn’t another CPAT for months after this one. I can’t be out of work for over a year.”
“Better a year than forever.” James frowned, picking up the papers, his eyes darting over the list of tasks Miles would have to accomplish to pass.
“Stairclimb? Maybe, but with the weight? On your shoulder? You could re-dislocate it. Same with the equipment carry, and the hose drag, actually. Not to mention the forcible entry component. Can you even swing a sledgehammer?” He put the papers back down.
“It’s my job to help you reach your goals, but you have to be realistic. Even if you don’t want to hear it...”
“Then don’t tell me what I can’t do,” Miles snapped. “I’ll stop using the cane, which will help strengthen my leg faster. We can do more days a week. I can hit the gym on my off days.”
James held up both hands. “Whoa, man. You can’t take shortcuts.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Motivation isn’t your problem. Elite athletes are the same; they don’t want to slow down and end up hurting themselves worse.”
Miles swung his legs over the edge of the table, turning his back on James.
He should listen to his PT. He’d be saying the exact same thing to anyone in his position.
But he had to be ready for the CPAT. He just had to.
Because if he wasn’t... Well, if he lost firefighting, what did he have left?
Nothing. Little more than a stupid kid with no prospects, again.
Too dumb to go to college, no marketable skills, and a future as a cripple. Disabled.
He cringed even as the thought crossed his mind, hating the words and all the stigma the slur implied, but laid bare by James’ evaluation, his own dark, internal monologue hijacked his brain.
I can’t accept it. Won’t accept it. I’ll be whole again or die trying.
“Are you gonna help me or not?”
“I will, but only so far as it will actually help. If you’re not ready, I’m going to recommend you delay. And if you overdo it between visits, I’ll know, and we won’t work as hard here.” James pushed off the table and came around to face him.
“Fine.” He’d still go to the gym on his off days, and though James could threaten not to work him as hard, he had all the exercises on printouts at home. Whatever it took to get ready in time.
He only had six more weeks.
After limping out of PT a half hour later, he texted Jif.
Have to stop and grab Nix, then I’ll be over.
She’d have finished recess and would be teaching her daily math lesson, so he didn’t expect a reply.
They’d already discussed that this would be his last visit.
Her kids were doing much better, and while the weekly time with Nix continued to be a classroom high point, they had state testing coming up, and they needed the hours back.
He’d be bummed if they didn’t already have a date planned for Saturday night. It would be hard saying goodbye to the kids, but at least he wasn’t saying goodbye to Jif, too.
After cleaning up, changing, and loading Nix into the car, he drove to the school.
Jif had promised a goodbye party but had kept quiet about what it would entail.
When he’d asked, she’d flicked her hair, a move she’d pegged as endlessly distracting to him, then pressed her finger to his lips with a pouty, “Shh, wait and see.”
She’d made the right call, even if it had been a little sneaky. He probably wouldn’t have agreed to a goodbye party including paint.
Pastel paint.
All over Nix’s snow-white paws.
And because unhinged third graders never did anything by halves, all over the rest of his coat, too. A pack of rainbow gremlins had mauled his black and white Dalmatian, turning him technicolor.
“Don’t worry,” Jif whispered to him as the horror of a paint-covered dog settled slowly over Miles’s features. “I have a plan.”
Fortunately, the whole project had been done outside with water-soluble paint, so after the kids finished up and headed home, their paw-print projects drying on a line in the classroom, Jif took Miles’s hand and led him to the locker room, then helped him bathe Nix.
As he scrubbed a red handprint off Nix’s shoulder, the paint running like watercolor down his front leg, Miles shivered. It reminded him so much of blood, of flames, his brain flashed for a moment to that day, months ago, when his leg had fallen through the floor.
His heart shuddered, and his body froze. The pain twisted through him, and his breath caught, bottomed out, stuttered back in.
Pressure on his arm.
No. My shoulder was torn apart, not my arm.
And it didn’t hurt; the touch simply held him.
Water flecked his face, and Miles shook his head.
Jif gazed up at him, her hand resting on his forearm. “Are you okay?”
He swallowed, more droplets showering over him as Nix shook the last of his bath away, his short fur shedding the water without a towel. The cool dampness grounded him.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“What do you need?” Jif’s voice held no judgment, only a genuine desire to help.
He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers for a moment. That, too, grounded him. Heat instead of cold wetness, but a physical sensation tethering him to this moment instead of the other one.
Miles lurched to his feet, leaning a hand on the shower stall until he caught his balance.
He’d left his cane in the car, following through on his promise to use it less, but after PT earlier, handling Nix in the school courtyard while the kids took his paw prints, and now bathing him in the locker room, his body wanted to collapse.
“Here, lean on me if you need.” Jif tucked herself under his arm, and though it should have embarrassed him to accept her help, he couldn’t muster enough energy to protest. “C’mon Nix.”
She patted her leg, and the dog fell into step beside her.
Miles grimaced, but even then, the corners of his lips twitched upwards. His dog clearly loved Jif, even if Nix could be an obnoxious hobgoblin sometimes.
That spoke volumes about her, too. Nix would do almost anything for food scraps and petting, but even without offering either, he minded Jif’s commands.
“Let me grab my stuff, and then we’ll go, okay?”
Miles leaned against the doorframe of her classroom as she put the last few things away, gathered her laptop and purse, and turned out the lights.
“Do you still need a hand?”
Lying through his gritted teeth, he forced his body upright. “I’m better now.”
Jif wouldn’t be at his CPAT. He had to do this on his own.
They made their slow way out to the parking lot and, as they approached her car, she turned to him. “I could eat. You?”
The pain in his leg faded away, and a new energy flooded his core. “Mac’s?”
She grinned. “Mac’s.”