“I’m not scowling, I’m reading,” I reply as he and Scout approach me at what I’ve come to think of as Margot’s Desk.
He smirks. “Tell that to your magazine before it bursts into flame.”
“We could use a little more warmth around here,” I grumble.
My dad chuckles. “I know exactly the kind of warmth you’re missing, and I’m sorry to say it won’t come from setting things on fire with your glare, son,” he says matter of factly.
He’s not wrong, I think. With a sigh, I set the magazine down as Scout noses his head onto my lap for a scratch. “I’m going to help Jo in the greenhouse. I’ll be back for our PT at eleven.”
I’ve pushed back from the desk and started clearing my plate when he says, “Actually, you won’t be.”
I stop. He spoke softly enough that I might have misunderstood. “Excuse me?”
Dad pins me with a look that tells me to sit right back down. He might be folded up like a wounded bird in that chair, but he can still put me in my place with one lift of his craggy brow. I sit down.
“Actually,” he repeats, more firmly this time, “you won’t be.”
“Of course I will,” I say, just as firmly. Lately, he’s been more and more resistant to our PT sessions, and I know why. The candle of hope he’s carried ever since his accident has burned down to a barely glowing stub in the wake of his seizure. It’s only made me more vigilant about keeping up with his exercises, but maybe I’ve been pushing him too hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to—
“Son, you’re fired.”
My head jerks up. This time I have no doubt what he’s said. “Fired?”
He nods. “Fired.”
We stare at each other, and after a long moment, I can’t help it—I laugh. It feels strange against my vocal cords, and I realize I can’t remember the last time I found something funny. But the idea of my dad firing me is so completely ridiculous in our situation that he has to be joking.
“Sure, okay,” I say, still chuckling. “I’ll just go polish up my résumé, then.”
But there’s no telltale twitch of his mustache or crease of crow’s-feet. He’s looking at me with a gravity that’s almost apologetic. “I mean it, Forrest,” he says. “You’re no longer my caretaker. I’ve hired someone else, and he’ll be here at eleven.”
For what feels like a long time, all I can do is let my somatic nervous system take over to perform its many jobs. It absorbs my father’s serious expression. It registers the stale aftertaste of subpar coffee while my mouth goes dry as a cotton ball. It processes what I’ve just heard. Except I’m having a little trouble with this last function. Usually, the way humans process and interpret meaning from sound is a miraculous phenomenon. I know, for instance, that my father’s words have hit my ears as sound waves, which set off an intricate, almost infinitesimal dance of movement inside my inner ears, which my brain somehow perceived as recognizable neural signals. I can understand what he’s told me, but allowing it to register as fact isn’t something I seem capableof. That’s probably why the only thing that comes out of my mouth is “Nope.”
I stand up, my body ready to vacate the premises as quickly as possible before it’s hit with any more indigestible information. Scout wags his tail hopefully, and suddenly, a run in negative-twenty-degree weather seems like a great idea.
“Yes, Forrest,” my dad says patiently, like he knows I’m having trouble keeping up. “His name is Joshua, and he’ll be here at eleven.”
“Joshua,” I repeat.
“You got it. He’s a registered nurse and knows my whole case.”
The unreality of the situation has me scrambling for words like they’re a bunch of marbles that got dumped on a floor.
“But… but we’renowhere,” I stammer stupidly. “You need someone to live here with you during the busy season at the very least. It’s too much work for Jo.”
“Heisgoing to live with me. Joshua, his wife, Ana, and their two little girls. They’re all very fond of the great outdoors. Ana can’t wait to lead wilderness excursions. She’s got her pilot’s license, too, so we might even be able to start doing those flight tours we always talked about.”
“How did you—”
“Jo and I have been making phone calls ever since we got back.” He shrugs his good shoulder as Scout comes to lie down beside him. “Turns out a solid salary, free room and board, and a slower way of life appeals to a lot of young folks these days.” He rubs his chin stubble thoughtfully. “Had to beat a lot of ’em off with a stick, honestly. But Joshua and his family are the perfect fit.”
“Can the lodge even afford to hire two full-time employees?” I ask.
“Son, look around. The cost of living here is about as low as it gets. We can afford it.”
“So—” I begin uncertainly. I press a fingertip to the rough-hewn desk between us. “So Joshua and his family are… coming here. At eleven. Tolivehere. At North Star Lodge.”
“Glad you’re keeping up.”
