Page 22 of Tangled with the Tight End

I’m not a quitter.

Besides, I need the money.

And he needs care.

I turn the corner and say, “Hello, Declan.”

“Hi, Winona,” he answers in his deep, almost scratchy voice.

I recite my introduction—the one I’m supposed to give new patients, not the one I just gave which involved a full play-by-play verbal tour of his well-protected neighborhood.

“I’m here to help you with your basic care needs. A registered nurse will come once a week to check on you as well. My job is more day-to-day.”

“I didn’t know you were a nurse,” he says.

I’m not sure if he’s being polite or questioning my qualifications, which, after that spray of incoherent architectural analysis, I wouldn’t blame him for in the least.

“I’m not a nurse—yet. I’m in my final year of schooling. One more semester to go. I’m certified, though. CNA.”

He nods. Then he winces slightly.

“Are you comfortable?” I ask.

“I’m okay.”

I pop my hand on my hip. I may have come in like a herd of baby goats on crack, but I know patient care. And we’re going to get a few things straight right off the bat.

“Declan,” I say, staring him in the eyes and realizing my mistake a moment too late.

No one should look directly into those eyes. They’re green with orange flecks today, but still rimmed in dark brown with an intensity that ushers up memories of my mom telling me not to look straight at the sun.

His brows raise as if to show he’s listening, but beneath that I sense a silent show of defiance.

He doesn’t want to be here. I get it.

“We’re going to lay out some ground rules,” I say. My hand still propped on my hip.

“Ground rules.”

“Yes. Ground rules.” I steel my features so he knows I’m serious. “You may not want to be here. Scratch that. You don’t want to be here. And you’re going to be in pain at times. I’m here to help you, but I can only help you if you tell me what’s wrong. So, when I ask, Are you in pain?, I want you to give me a number between zero and ten. Zero is pain free. Ten is this pain is the worst you’ve ever felt. Understood?”

He nods.

“So, when I see you wince and then I ask you if you’re in pain, the answer is definitely not, ‘I’m fine.’ Got it?”

“Yes.”

This time, his smile makes it onto his face. It’s not a full smile. But it’s something.

“So, let’s try this again. Are you in pain, Declan?”

“About a four.”

“Okay. Good. Thank you.”

I walk toward his scattered mess of pill bottles, drinks, a kleenex box, remotes and other this-and-that.

I lift each bottle, reading the labels and checking them against my phone where I’ve pulled up the med sheet Riverview has on file for Declan.