EVEN THOUGH IT’S super late when the cab drops us home from the hospital, I can’t sleep.
Gramps, on the other hand, took painkillers for his shoulder, and he’s been snoring for hours.
I stay up.
At one point in the night, I hear the coyotes again, faint and far away. I shudder.
But then I imagine John Lockdown, flying tight circles around the house, weaving an invisible force field so nothing can get through to hurt us.
It’s well past sunrise when the sound of Mom’s car in the drive wakes me. I scramble outside to help.
Mom reaches in the car for a set of crutches as Cal slowly emerges from the backseat. He’s got a huge black plastic cast on—it looks like the boot from my old toy Megazord. He stands, shakily, then takes the crutches from Mom. It takes ten minutes for the three of us, hobbling and wobbling, to get him safely inside the house.
“Thank you, Stan,” says Mom as my brother sits heavily in Gramps’s recliner. We prop his Megazord boot up, and he moans. It’s a soft moan, sort of like those midnight coyotes.
“I’ll have to make up a bed on the couch for him,” Mom says, rubbing her temples, trying to think. “No stairs for a while. I’ve already ordered the wheelchair. . . .”
“You rest. I’ll do the couch,” I say.
Mom’s skin is so pale, she looks waxy. She slumps into a chair and covers her face. When a good five minutes have gone by and she hasn’t moved, I go over. “Mom?” I put a hand on one of her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mom. Everything’ll be just fine.”
She laughs a little, and puts her hand over mine. “Yeah?” she says. “I never thought I’d hear you say that, Stanley.”