Page 98 of Property of Bob

I looked down at it. “What the fuck?”

“You need protein.”

“I already had bacon.”

“Now you have more.”

I looked at Ramona.

She shrugged. “Eat the bacon.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Bacon’s.”

Fair enough. I ate it.

By the time breakfast was over, I was feeling better than I had since before the attack.

I’d slept in my own bed. Eaten actual food. Had coffee that didn’t taste like it came out of a machine that hadn’t been cleaned since 1987.

And Ramona was here.

I wasn’t going to examine that one too closely yet.

Ramona pushed her chair back. “You still want to try walking?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

I looked at her.

She held up her hands. “I’m asking. Not telling.”

“I’m sure.”

“Then let’s do it.”

We went out behind the clubhouse.

I’d refused to do physical therapy in the common room.

Ramona hadn’t argued. That surprised me.

She’d simply nodded, followed me outside, and waited while I positioned the wheelchair near the back porch.

The morning was cool. Sunlight stretched across part of the yard, but the clubhouse and haunted house kept most of where we were shaded.

I locked the wheels.

Ramona stepped closer. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

She held out her hand. I looked at it and then at her.

“What?” she asked.