Prologue
Theo
Thousand Oaks Skilled Nursing Facility looked exactly like what it was—a place where hope came to die. The building matched my mood—a squat two-story structure with faded brick and windows that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it. The parking lot was half-empty when I pulled in, my beat-up Honda Civic looking right at home among the other weathered vehicles.
I sat for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel. Staring at the entrance, my stomach twisted into a familiar knot. Three months since the accident, and I still couldn't walk through those doors without feeling like I was betraying my brother by leaving him here.
Just get over it, Theo.
The lobby greeted me with its usual fluorescent buzz and the faint sound of a television somewhere down the hall. But it was that sharp, antiseptic scent that always hit me first. I'd grown to hate it over the past few months, the way it clung to my clothes after each visit, how it followed me home like an unwelcome shadow.
Mrs. Patel, the receptionist who'd been here since the Reagan administration from the looks of it, glanced up from her crossword puzzle. “Theo,” she said, her voice warm despite the institutional setting. “Glad to see you, hon. Casey's been asking for you.”
I signed the visitor log with mechanical precision, my signature a pale imitation of what it had been before all this started. Before I'dbecome someone whose entire life revolved around hospital visits and insurance forms.
“Janet said he did well in PT today,” Mrs. Patel offered, trying to lift my spirits.
I managed a smile. “That's great.”
The hallway to Casey's room stretched before me like a gauntlet. Room 117. I'd memorized every crack in the linoleum on the way there, every water stain on the ceiling. The journey never got easier.
Outside his door, I paused to compose myself. Casey needed his little brother, the one person in the world who was supposed to have his back.
To help him get to who he used to be.
I knocked twice—our childhood signal—and pushed open the door. “Hey, Case.” I said, forcing brightness into my voice. “I heard you crushed PT today.”
Casey turned his head toward me, and I caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes. A good day, then. Thank God. “Theo,” he said, his voice slurred but clear enough. “You're late.”
I wasn't, but his sense of time wasn't what it used to be. “Traffic,” I lied, moving to sit in the chair beside his bed. “How are you feeling?”
Casey Bennett, my big brother, my protector, my hero—looked at me with eyes that still held traces of the person he'd been before a skiing accident had robbed him of himself. His once-athletic frame had withered, and his dark hair had been cut short for easier care. At thirty-one, he looked both younger and older than his age, a contradiction that made my chest ache every time I saw him. “My head hurts,” he said. “But Janet says I'm getting st-stronger.”
I reached out and clapped his shoulder. “That's what I hear too. You're doing great, Case.”
The words felt hollow, but what else could I say? That I was terrified by how little progress he'd made? That I was about to leave for a job that would make me feel like the worst brother in the world?
“Did you b..b…bring ice cream?” Casey asked, a childlike hope in his voice.
I swallowed hard. “Not today. But I promise I'll bring some when I get back.”
His brow furrowed. “Back from where?”
And there it was, the conversation I'd been dreading. I squeezed his hand. “Remember I told you about that job in Florida? The one that pays a lot of money?”
Casey stared at me for a moment before recognition dawned. “The... the fishing job?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, relieved I wouldn't have to explain it all again. “I leave tomorrow morning. But it's only for a month or two, and then I'll be back with enough money to get you into that rehabilitation center Dr. Mercer recommended.”
Casey's eyes drifted toward the window. “Florida,” he repeated, as if testing the word. “Is it warm there?”
“Yeah, it gets hot,” I said, grateful for the shift in topic. “And humid too.”
“I liked the beach when we went... when we went...” He trailed off, frustration crossing his features as the memory slipped away.
“When we went to Santa Monica for your twenty-fifth birthday,” I finished for him. “You tried to teach me to surf, remember? I was terrible.”
“You stood up once.”
