After Neil’s wrist started getting better, the house seemed to ease back into its usual rhythm.
He still forgot the ice pack by the couch. He still said he was fine while unconsciously favoring the injured hand. Every time Cindy noticed, she frowned, and he would smile and insist it did not hurt, as if saying it lightly enough might make everyone believe him.
I kept helping him change the ice pack.
That afternoon, Neil was on the couch again, his injured wrist resting across his knee. I wrapped the fresh cold pack in a towel and leaned closer to settle it properly when a faint sound came from the stairs.
Very faint.
Still, I caught myself listening.
Neil looked at me, but he did not speak right away.
I pressed the ice pack back over his wrist, my movement a little slower than before
