Page 34 of We Drank the Dawn

“Yep.”

“That’s nice.”

“It’ll add about an hour to the ride though. We won’t get back till about one-thirty or so.”

I shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

After a few quiet minutes, Cooper broke the silence. “So, why didn’t Peter come?”

Surprised by his direct question, I laughed a little. “Well, he isn’t a fan of doing right now.”

“What happened to him?”

“He had an accident.”

“Yeah, I know. But how did he go blind from it?” He lifted a shoulder. “Seems like something out of a movie.”

“I’ve thought the same. Basically, he got a traumatic brain injury. He’s what we call cortically blind, meaning the part of the brain that accepts visual messages”—I pointed a spot on the back of my head—“is damaged. Not his eyes. Which is why his eyes still respond to visual stimuli, his pupils still dilate, and stuff like that.”

“How does that even happen?”

“Brain contusions. His car was hit twice from two different directions.” I shook my head, disbelieving how immune I’d become to the words. How numb I was to the story that ruined my life. “His brain got slammed around in his skull so much it bruised and…and didn’t heal.” I shrugged. They were just hard facts at this point, details about another dimension of reality.

After a long silence, Cooper clicked his tongue. “I’m guessing that wasn’t on your bingo card.”

“Yeah, definitely not.”

“He went to rehab?”

“He did. We went to a live-in facility where Peter was trained how to do self-care tasks, use a kitchen, read braille, utilize technology, navigate, and a thousand other things.”

“You went with him?”

“Yes.” I lifted my chin, offering a smile. “I can read and write in braille, actually.”

“That’s cool.” Cooper’s cheek twisted with a half smile. “Well, if he changes his mind and wants to take a ride, I can bring you back out.”

“He won’t. But, I appreciate the offer anyway.” Not wanting to talk about Peter anymore, I changed the topic. “You went to rehab too, right?”

“Yeah. Can’t blame it on brain trauma though.”

“What happened to you?” I already knew, courtesy of the Thompson grapevine, that Cooper overdosed a couple summers ago. But I figured he knew what happened to Peter, too, and we were just making conversation.

His saddle creaked as he shifted in it, passing the reins from his left hand to his right. He glanced into the distant trees as if avoiding my question. But slowly, he answered. “It was for addiction recovery.”

“How long were you there?”

“Eighteen months.”

“That’s a long time. When did you get back?”

“January.”

“And how’s the sober life treating you?”

He gave a huff, the sound laced with annoyance. “Like shit. You’d think eighteen months would’ve fixed me.”

I shook my head. “No, I understand. Training and therapy can only go so far. It’s a lot harder in the real world.”