Chapter 20: Gentle Repairs
The hospital had discharged me with instructions to rest, avoid stairs if possible, and return immediately if the dizziness worsened. The house was quiet in the ordinary way, but nothing inside it felt ordinary anymore.
I moved through rooms without purpose. I sat down and stood up again. I made tea and forgot it on the counter until it went cold. Every time I closed my eyes, the ridge returned in fragments: the groan beneath the soil, the violent tilt of the world, the feeling of ground deciding it no longer believed in itself.
And threaded through all of it was Bramwell. I kept hearing the nurse's voice.
Bramwell's work was engineering geology, which meant counties and contractors called him when hillsides became unstable, roads cracked, drainage failed, or officials needed someone qualified to confirm that a dangerous situation was, in fact, dangerous.
The north ridge had a history of runoff damage and shallow slope failures after storms. It also carried the service road used by emergency crews during fire season. After the previous night's rain, the county sent Bramwell to inspect the ridge, check soil movement, assess drainage, and determine whetherthe access road could safely support incoming trucks and equipment.
It could not.
When fire crews began mobilizing anyway, he stayed to redirect the convoy onto a safer route and move the warning markers into place. The second collapse struck while he was still on the slope.
I checked my phone more times than dignity allowed. There were messages from July, two from Ellis, one from work, and nothing from Bramwell.
By evening, worry had sharpened into something active. He had given me his address once in the same careless tone people use when offering gum. I had remembered it with insulting ease. My ribs objected the whole drive there.
The building was older than I expected. I stood outside longer than necessary before knocking.
The door opened immediately. His friend stood there and nearly dropped the mug he was holding. He was younger than I remembered and softer somehow than the loud version of him I had seen once at a café with Bramwell. Then, he had been animated and reckless with stories. Now, standing barefoot in an oversized sweater with sleep-creased hair, he looked almost shy.
His eyes landed on me and widened with immediate recognition.
"Oh. April."
I didn't answer. He didn't seem surprised by that at all. Instead, he stepped back at once and opened the door wider.
"Sorry. Yes. Come in. Obviously. You're the person with the eyes."
I blinked.
He flushed faintly. "That sounded strange. Bramwell described your eyes once. More than once, actually. In a way no man should while sober."
I stared at him. He winced at himself. "I've already failed confidentiality."
I shifted my weight and pain pulled through my side before I could hide it. I looked past him toward the hall.
"Yes," he said quickly, stepping aside. "Right. You want information."
He lowered his voice.
"Current condition: bruised ribs, stitches in the shoulder, sprained wrist, dramatic sighing. Emotional condition: pretending to be charming through pain. As a citizen: still parking badly."
My mouth almost betrayed a smile. From deeper inside came Bramwell's strained voice.
"If that's Jo, tell him I hope his hairline accelerates."
His friend looked at me cheerfully, "He sounds strong and I was leaving anyway."
Then he reached for his coat.
"I do actually have to leave the city for a few days. Family obligation. Also if I remain here any longer, he will ask me to help him bathe and I respect neither of us enough for that."
Then he gave me a quick nod and left in a sweep of keys. I stood alone for one suspended second before walking farther inside.
Bramwell was on the couch with one arm in a sling. Bandages disappeared beneath the collar of a grey shirt. Bruising darkened one side of his jaw, yellowing at the edges. He looked tired.
