I follow him. Poppy sits back and lets me.
The chair is beautiful. Dark wood, sanded smooth, curved back and wide arms. Will had carved small details into the armrests. Leaves or vines. It's the work of hands that loved what they were doing.
I run my fingers over the carving where I can reach. Will watches me as I do.
"Three months," he says, opening the truck bed and removing the ropes holding it in place. "The carving alone was six weeks."
"It's incredible."
"She's for the porch. For summer evenings." He pats the arm of it like it's alive. "The curve of the back is the thing. You lean into it and it holds you. Anna always said a good chair should hold you like a person."
Anna. His wife. He says her name like a word he uses every day. He positions himself at the back with one hand on the armrest and glances at me.
"You're on that side. Just guide the legs. Nice and easy."
I do as I'm told.
"That's it," he says as we move it. "Slowly, let her come to you."
For a few seconds, everything is fine. The chair is moving, Will talks me through it, hands steady, weight manageable. Then it stops, the base stuck on something, and he rocks it side to side, but it doesn't budge.
"Let me help from this side," I say, and I yank on it to loosen whatever's blocking it.
Then the weight shifts. It happens so fast I can't track the sequence afterward. The chair tilts toward Will. The base swings out wider than I expected. I stumble back. One step. Two. My elbow catches Will's side. It isn't hard. It shouldn't have been enough, but he's already off-balance, one foot on gravel and one on the bumper, leaning in at the wrong angle.
The small push is all it takes. His knee buckles, his foot slips off the bumper, and he goes down.
The sound. God, the sound. A crack, sharp and clean, like a branch snapping in winter. Then a noise from Will that isn't quite a scream and isn't anything else either. A sharp inhale that turns into a groan that he swallows halfway through. His whole body goes rigid on the gravel.
The chair hits the ground beside him. Poppy catches the top before it falls on his leg. I don't know where she came from or how fast, but she's already yelling something.
I can't hear her. There's a ringing in my ears and my hands are still out, still curled around nothing, and my whole body has gone cold.
I drop to my knees beside him on the gravel, hands hovering over his leg, not touching, not helping, shaking so badly I couldn't have held anything even if there was something to hold. Every hour of medical training I have vanishes.
"I'm sorry." It comes out broken and jagged and nowhere near enough. "I'm so sorry, I bumped you, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
"Lily." His voice cuts through mine. Impossibly, infuriatingly calm for a man lying on gravel with a broken leg. Hereaches over and takes my hand. His grip is steady and completely at odds with the gray color of his face. "It's okay, sweetheart. It wasn't your fault."
"It was. I hit you…"
"The chair went over. You didn't."
"But I…"
"Look at me."
I take a shaky inhale and meet his eyes. Brown, full of pain he's refusing to show me. And a kindness that, even with his leg broken on the ground, his first instinct is to make sure I'm okay.
"I'm okay," he says, squeezing my hand. "It's just a bone. Bones heal. I'm okay."
He isn't okay. His face is white now and his breathing is shallow. He's gripping my hand hard enough that I can feel the tremor he's trying to hide.
Gran is on the phone already, barking at someone in a tone that suggests the ambulance had better break several traffic laws getting here. Beth is inside getting a blanket. Vera is clearing the path from the driveway to the front door, moving a pot and a pair of boots without a word, without hurrying.
Poppy kneels on Will's other side, puts her hand on his arm.
"Ambulance is coming, Will."
