Page 65 of Josephine and Clay

“You barely ate,” Faith says.

“Not hungry.”

Mom opens her mouth.

“Don’t,” I warn.

Her chin lifts. “Fine.”

That’s worse than if she’d kept going.

I get myself out of the kitchen on the crutches with more noise than grace, shoulders tight, jaw tighter. Every step back down the hall is as hard as losing a fight to gravity.

By the time I shut the bedroom door behind me, I’m sweating. I’m angry at the cast, the pain, the stupid useless throb of my own body. The way everybody looks at me now as some storm-damaged thing that needs careful handling.

I drop onto the bed hard and suck a curse through my teeth when the leg jostles.

“Perfect,” I mutter to the ceiling.

The pills sit on the nightstand beside a sweating glass of water. White bottle. Childproof cap. Helpful little label that might as well read Take as needed and kiss your dignity goodbye.

I stare at it, then take one anyway, because pain is one thing when you’re moving through it.

Different thing entirely when you’ve got nothing to do but sit there and let it gnaw.

The next day is worse.

And the day after that’s worse in a new way.

Pain and boredom start circling each other until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. The pills dull the sharpest parts but leave me slow and fuzzy. There’s cotton packed behind my eyes. I hate that more than I hate the pain, which is saying something.

Mom notices by breakfast. “You look strange.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t get smart with me. Did you take the medicine?”

“Yes.”

“Then eat.”

“I'm eating.”

“You’re stabbing eggs.”

I look down. Fair enough.

Across the table, Wyatt swings his legs under his chair and watches me with the open curiosity only little kids get away with. “Does your leg hurt?”

“All the time.”

He considers that. “That sounds bad.”

“Sure does.”

Ellie, sitting straighter and quieter beside Rose, asks, “Are you gonna have to stay here a long time?”

I swallow hard. Too hard. “A little while.”