Page 52 of Property of Bob

“So nobody said tomorrow,” Anchor pointed out.

“I did.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It counts to me.”

Anchor stared at me.

I stared right back. I’d known this man long enough to know when he was deciding whether to argue or punch me. Considering I was in a hospital bed, punching me was probably off the table.

Probably.

“You can’t even walk across this room by yourself,” he said.

“I have a wheelchair,” I pointed out. “And I can work on walking. I just need to keep doing rehab and get my strength back.”

“Like rehab that they are giving you in the hospital?” Cross laughed.

I waved my hand at him. “What they are doing with me in rehab, I can do back on the island. And I have the wheelchair,” I repeated.

“You hate the wheelchair,” Skull called. “You moan and groan every time you get in it.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t fucking use it.”

Cross glanced at Anchor.

I caught it. “No silent communication bullshit.”

Anchor looked back at me. “I’m not fucking around, Bob.”

“Neither am I.”

“You get home and something happens, what then?”

I leveled my gaze on him. “Something is already happening.”

“That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is when you’re one bad day away from being right back where you started.”

That pissed me off. “I am not one bad day away from dying.”

Anchor held up his hands. “I didn’t say dying.”

“You meant it.”

He lowered his hands. “No. I meant you need to heal.”

“I can heal at home.”

Anchor opened his mouth.

I cut him off. “I can sit in a fucking bed at the clubhouse just as easily as I can sit in this one.”

“You need nurses.”