I vaguely remember all my siblings crowding around the bed, listening intently, writing things down and asking questions on my behalf. They were almost too eager to help with my recovery. The nurse warned that I’d probably need help with basic tasks for a while—that the pain would stick around, that normal routines might be difficult until the cast comes off in eight to twelve weeks.
As much as I appreciate their willingness to help, I don’t want it.
I shouldn’t rely on them. I’m supposed to be the oldest one—the strongest one. The one who looks after them, not the other way around. It’s not in my nature to accept help like this, and the thought of it makes me more nauseous than the medication does.
The engine clicks off. Silence settles inside the van.
“You ready?” Troy asks gently.
I glance up at him, forcing a weak smile. “Yeah.”
He hops out first and circles around to my side before I even get the door open. The cold air bites at my face as I step down from the van.
Immediately, Troy’s arm comes around my back, steadying me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
I snort. “I broke my ribs and my arm,” I say, shifting the bag of pills under my good arm. “Not my legs. I can still walk.”
His mouth tightens. “I know.”
But he doesn’t let go.
We walk up the driveway toward the porch, his hand hovering just behind my back like he’s waiting to catch me if I collapse at any second.
I try to lighten the mood.
“If you try to carry me inside like a bride, I’m kicking you in the nuts,” I tease.
Troy doesn’t laugh. He just frowns, his eyes flicking toward my ribs like he can see the fractures through my jacket. “I won’t.”
My smile fades. Alright, then. Clearly he’s not in the mood to joke yet.
We reach the front door. I shift the pill bag against my hip and fish my keys out of my pocket with my good hand, the metal clinking softly as I unlock the door.
The house greets us with familiar stillness. It smells faintly like fresh paint and wood polish. The kitchen light is still on from the morning I left for the orchard.
I step inside slowly, Troy following me closely like a shadow.
My gaze drifts automatically to the living room, landing on the blueprint drafts sprawled across the coffee table. Wide sheets of measurements, sketches, and scribbled notes, still covered with pencil shavings and eraser dust. The barn renovation plans I’ve been obsessing over for the last few weeks.
My chest tightens.
Before Troy can really look at them, I step forward and clumsily gather the prints. The paper crinkles as I roll them up awkwardly and shove them to the side of the table. The movement sends a sharp pulse through my ribs, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from reacting.
I glance down at my arm, still locked in the stiff white cast. Pins and needles prickle beneath the plaster, the dull ache constant and unrelenting.
The doctor said the bones will heal. Eventually. That I should be fully back to normal by next spring—just in time to start preparing for cherry season.
But swinging a hammer? Hauling lumber? Climbing ladders?
Not anytime soon.
My eyes drift back to the rolled-up blueprints. So much for that dream.
Mentally and physically exhausted, I shuffle over to the couch and collapse onto it with a heavy exhale. The cushions sink beneath my weight, and the sudden shift sends a dull throb through my ribs.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing at my side.
