Adrian sat in his wheelchair, glaring at oatmeal.
The first week I worked for him, he told me not to call him sir because he was “twenty, not a retired judge.”
I told him he glared like one.
That made him laugh for the first time.
Most people treated him as if the wheelchair had swallowed his voice. They talked over him, around him, or at him in slow, cautious tones that made his jaw tighten.
I pushed the bowl closer. “Eat.”
“It tastes like wet cardboard, Kirsten.”
“I’ll add honey tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll hate it tomorrow.”
His mouth twitched.
“You don’t pity me, do you?” he asked.
“Honey, I feel for you, and I’m here to help. But pity? I don’t have the time.”
That became our rhythm. He snapped. I snapped back. Eventually, he let me help.
One afternoon, while I repaired the brake on his chair, he asked, “Was Lisa in college?”
“Community college. She loved it.”
“What did she study?”
“Everything. Nursing, design, psychology, then accounting because numbers made sense. She was still choosing.”
He almost smiled.
“She once bought a yellow raincoat keychain because she said it looked emotionally supportive. She would have argued with you like crazy, Adrian.”
He dropped his spoon.
His face had gone pale. “A yellow raincoat?”
I stared at him. “Yes.”
“Was it hanging from her car mirror?”
My hand froze on the chair brake.
“Adrian, how did you know that?”
He turned his chair toward the window. “Lucky guess.”
“No,” I said. “Nobody guesses a yellow raincoat keychain hanging from a car mirror.”
The hospital called before he answered.
Just like that, Adrian got to keep his secret a little longer.
I stepped into the hallway.
Dr. Evans’ voice came through low and careful. “Lisa’s rehab spot can only be held until tomorrow morning.”
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