Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I set my phone back on the side table and reach for the remote again, only to be interrupted by a sharp squeaking loud enough to make me flinch.
I glance up to see Barnaby pressing his nose against the gap in the squawking screen door, widening the space between the door and the frame until—
“Barnaby, no,” I say. “No, buddy. No, don’t— Shit!”
The latch pops like a gunshot, and he’s out the door, ninety pounds of stressed-out golden retriever rocketing across the patio into the backyard. He’s through the gate that Cristina must have left open two seconds later. I hear his nails scrabbling on the driveway through the open windows, and then…he’s gone.
Gone.
And Cristina is going to cry her eyes out if I don’t get him back.
“Shit,” I curse again, reaching for my wheels. I shove toward the door as best I can with one good hand and the thumb sticking out of my cast.
I’m not supposed to be using my left hand at all, but I can’t just sit here. With Marco deployed, Barnaby is the only member of Cris’s family still in Louisiana, and she loves that dog to distraction. He’s her baby. I can’t let her baby get lost or hurt or run over by another maniac driving a truck like a loaded weapon.
The screen door bangs against the frame behind me as I wheel through it.
The back patio is flat, manageable, and I get across the well-trimmed grass and through the gate okay. But as soon as I start down the driveway, it becomes obvious that I’ve made a serious miscalculation.
The driveway is way steeper than I remembered, and my casts don’t just make me more awkward; they make me heavier. Which makes me gain speed faster, which makes my heart leap into my throat and wobble there as I careen through the darkness. I squeeze the wheel guide with my good hand on one side, and shove my cast against the guide on the other, but the pressure sends pain shooting through my damaged bone. I’m forced to back off. The second I do, the chair rolls even faster.
Realizing there’s no way I’m stopping this without mechanical assistance, I bend, reaching for the emergency brake levers by my knees.
I find the switch on the right side instantly, but on the left—the side with the arm encased in plaster past my elbow—I fumble. I try again, then again, resisting the urge to pull the right brake without the left, knowing that will only throw me sideways.
Meanwhile, the dark end of the driveway is coming up fast, and I realize, with terrifying clarity, that I’m on a collision course with the Range Rover parked across the street. My mouth goes dry, and my heart hammers faster. I can’t afford to take another hit right now. My bones haven’t healed from my first catastrophic injury; another one so soon might do critically serious damage.
My stomach is about to drop through the bottom of the chair when I finally hook my thumb around the left brake on the fourth try. I pull hard on both levers, groaning as pain flashes through my wounded arm again.
But thank God, the chair finally jolts, shudders, and…stops.
Right at the end of the driveway.
“Shit,” I pant, trembling as I lean back in my chair. “Holy shit, that was close.”
I’m seriously shaken, and my left arm throbs more than it has in days, but I can’t stop to whine about it.
I’m going to be okay, I can tell, and I have to find Barnaby.
I release the brakes, planning to back up and roll onto the sidewalk leading toward the market, where I’m guessing Barnaby must have gone. But even with the emergency brakes off, the wheels won’t move. They’re jammed or something.
I try again, then again, putting more weight into it, but no amount of force from my right arm moves the chair so much as an inch, and my left arm is basically useless.
Fresh rage blooms inside me like a mushroom cloud as I realize I’m stuck.
I’m stuck at the end of Cristina’s dark driveway, with a jammed wheelchair, my cell phone on the table inside, a runaway dog getting farther away from home with every passing second, and no one around to help. Cris’s cul-de-sac only has three houses, and the other two porch lights are dark.
I look farther down the street, but those houses are dark, too. Where is everyone? It’s barely ten o’clock on a Friday. Shouldn’t someone still be awake?
“Hello?” I call out into the silence. “Hello, is anyone there?”
A dog barks in response, but it’s not Barnaby, just a neighborhood defender giving a warning yap from a few doors down, who quiets quickly, clearly deciding I’m not a threat.
I’m not a threat.
Hell, I’m barely a functional human being.
I pull in a shaky breath that emerges as a sob. A beat later, the tears begin to flow, hot and ugly. They’re tears of frustration and anger and helplessness. Tears I’ve been fighting since I woke up in the hospital and realized my entire life had changed for the worse. Tears that threaten every time I think about my bass in the music room and my languishing clothing design projects and all the other dreams that are on the backburner for the foreseeable future.