I was discharged the next day. Lila met me with a car and a bundle of flowers.
"You look terrible," she said cheerfully.
"I feel like I've been run over by a truck."
"You'll feel better tomorrow. Also, the club circuit is buzzing. Word got out that you're back."
I groaned. "I'm not ready for that."
"Then don't answer them until you are. You're your own woman now. You set the schedule."
I spent the next few days doing nothing—sleeping, eating diner food, watching bad movies on the clubhouse television. The clubhouse smelled like pine and woodsmoke, and I could hear the distant hum of Harleys on the highway.
Somewhere in the middle of all that nothing, I started talking to Dex.
It started with a text thanking him for the clinic arrangement. He responded within seconds.
Dex: I hope y
