Before

The physical therapy room smelled like lemon pledge and sweat, with a subtle yet distinct undercurrent of feces. I didn’t know if they were all like this, like it was some kind of PT signature, but every similar facility in the clinic Nick dragged me to smelled exactly the same.

“Fuck,” Nick swore. He was holding onto the two parallel bars in the center of the room, triceps rippling from the effort, occupying the same spot he’d been in ten minutes ago. The only difference was that the back of his hospital gown came undone, flying open like a reverse cape.

I penciled in an answer on the prep book and turned the page.

The supernova event of 1987 is interesting in that there is still no evidence of the neutron star that current theory says should have remained after a supernova of that size. This is in spite of the fact that many of the most sensitive instruments ever developed have searched for the telltale pulse of radiation neutron stars emit. Thus, current theory is wrong in claiming that supernovas of a certain size always produce neutron stars.

Which one of the following, if true, most strengthens the argument?

1. Most supernova remnants astronomers have detected have a neutron star nearby.
2. Sensitive astronomical instruments have detected neutron stars much farther away than the location of the 1987 supernova.
3. The supernova of 1987 was the first that scientists were able to observe in progress.
4. Several important features of the 1987 supernova are correctly predicted by the current theory.
5. Some neutron stars are known to have come into existence by a cause other than a supernova explosion.

I stared at the question. Closed the textbook to check the cover and make sure I hadn’t picked up an astronomy prep book by mistake, then opened it again. “The fuck?”

“Fucking what?” Nick asked. Rivulets of sweat poured down his face, and he squinted at me beneath ringlets of soaked hair. He was leaning further forward, looking like a wax mannequin dumped on the side of the road in Tucson.

I uncrossed my legs and walked awkwardly toward him, my foot asleep from sitting in one position for too long, and shoved the book in his face. He blinked several times, struggling to make out the text. “Motherfucker.”

I reread the question again, looking for the hook I’d missed, finding none. “Fucking bullshit.”

“Pencil in F,” Nick suggested, between gasps for air. “For fuck off.”

I snorted. “Fucking A. But that was too many words between fucks. You broke the chain.”

Still gripping the rails, he extended a finger toward me. “The lawyer shit fits. You’re a goddamn shyster.”

“Too bad I’m not planning to be a lawyer.” Law school was way out of budget. Even if I got a full-ride to both a good college and a solid law school after—which I doubted—the textbooks might as well have been etched in gold. Whatever pittance they offered to cover them wouldn’t come close to the final tally. It was too much effort for too little payoff. I dog-eared the page for later research and closed the book. “Can we say that, by the way?”

“Lawyer?” Nick snorted.

“Shyster.”

“What’s wrong with shyster?”

“Dunno. I think it might be… antisemitic, or something.”

“No, it’s not.” Nick scoffed. A shadow of doubt crossed his face. “Is it?”

I flipped open my burner and pulled up the browser to look it up, only to be greeted by the perpetually spinning circle. “Out of data.”

Nick inclined his head backward toward where his phone sat, blasting warring alt-rock over the tranquil spa music that played through the speakers overhead. “Use mine.”

I grabbed his phone. He gave me a sort of half-smirk, and I rolled my eyes and focused on the phone screen. The passcode was four digits—meaning he was still using a simple passcode—which made this worlds easier than it could have been. I tried his birthday first.

The phone vibrated, white dots going transparent.

No dice

Graduation year?

Nope.

“Don’t lock me out,” Nick warned.

“Relax, I’ve got three more tries.” I studied the screen.

Nick wasn’t a complete asshole, so it wouldn’t be a code I couldn’t hope to guess. Or at the very least, he thought I could get it, based on what I knew about him previously or information I’d gleaned in the hospital.

I entered four numbers and groaned, internally, as the phone unlocked.

“Really?”

Nick hee-hawed himself into a coughing fit. He continued to snicker, red-eyed. “A number so magical I had to use it twice.”

“Your passcode literally only comprises two numbers, repeated. You’re a bellend.”

“Gettin’ a wee bit British in ‘ere, are we?” Nick said, in the worst imitation of a cockney accent I’d ever heard.

“That supposed to be British? Sounds more like a piss-drunk Australian.”

Nick opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Before I make the obvious joke, we should probably make sure there’s no current pending cancellations in my future. Because I’m pretty sure I may have, possibly, used that word on Twitter.”

“Twitter still exists?” I asked.

Nick nodded.

I knew that all this was a distraction. That he was procrastinating. And cancellation a few years from now would be the least of Nick’s problems once he was back in circulation. They’d be decent enough until his ration of social pity expired. Maybe a month or two. After that, things would get ugly.

But he was doing me the service of distracting me from my mother, who was probably still wailing her lungs out in the clinic’s sister facility.

Least I could do was humor him.

I pulled up Safari and did the research.

“So, you’re probably in the clear,” I finally said.

Nick squinted. “What’s probably? Why probably?”

“Shyster is commonly mis-attributed to Shylock, the antagonist from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. Pound-of-flesh guy was Jewish—and there are still scholars arguing over whether Merchant of Venice was problematic as recently as a few years ago. But like I said, it’s a misattribution. The word itself predates MoV, and is really only derogatory to lawyers.”

“So why am I only probably not cancelled?” Nick asked.

“Dubious intent.”

“What?”

“Did you say it to a Jewish person?

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Then you’re fine.”

Nick was still following through on his wax mannequin act. If he kept heading in this slow, southward direction, he was going to end up on the floor. “Christ. You gotta be so careful about what you say these days, man.”

“I dunno—” I hesitated. This was another bad habit I’d developed over the last few weeks. Telling Nick my opinion, something I had, previously, fastidiously kept to myself. He had a talent for drawing it out of me.

“Say it.” Nick hoisted himself upward with a grunt, gained four inches, lost three.

I shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I think there’s a lot of problems with the way things are now, with—”

“—Society?” Nick drew the word out, making an overly wide, exaggerated clown smile.

“Fuck you.”

“Sorry, had to. Go on.”

“With… the current climate,” I said, taking as many mental side steps around the word “society” as I could. “I think we hyper-fixate on certain issues, while far bigger problems grow malignant and metastasize without ever even making a blip on the social radar. But words have power. It’s always been that way. I don’t think being mindful of our words—and how they affect the people around us—is that big of an ask.”

“Well, now I feel like an asshole,” Nick grumbled.

“You told me to say it.”

“Like. I know that you’re right. I agree with everything you said, I’m just…”

“Just what?”

Nick swiped a sweaty arm across his face and slammed his hand back down. “I know I’m behind on the recovery. And I know what happens if I stagnate. Like, I know. And I’m tired of knowing that and only getting bullshitted in return. The fucking therapist calling it an improvement because I took three more steps than yesterday and managed not to shit myself. They keep telling me I’m doing great. They keep lying. And I’m fucking tired of it.” The wooden bars vibrated in his grip. “For once, I just want someone to take me to task. Hold me accountable. Like you said. Words have power.”

“I mean, your PT’s an effete dumbass who probably couldn’t wring a genuine moment from Ginsberg’s Howl—”

“—I understood about sixty percent of that,” Nick said.

“—But positive reinforcement is always more effective than negative reinforcement. And that’s not societal niceties, or woke posturing. That’s science.”

“You remember that Junior ROTC program we had, freshman and sophomore year?” Nick asked.

I had to think about it. “Yeah. The drill instructor got fired for putting a student through a car window. School withdrew from the program after that.”

Nick laughed. “Sergeant Ross. Not even sure if he was a sergeant, but that was what he made us call him. Dude was such a prick. Plus, I’m pretty sure he had a glandular problem. He had these tight pants and you could see his—well… anyway. I was like barely one-twenty, soaking wet.”

“Bullshit.” The size-difference alone was staggering.

“I was,” Nick insisted. “Total noodle. Never stepped in the gym for more than a couple days a week, and when I did, it was mostly cardio. Surprising no one, Sergeant Ross didn’t like me much. One day, after drills, he stops me. Asks me why I’m even bothering with JROTC. And being the naïve freshman I was, I told him honestly. I wanted to bulk up for football.”

I groaned.

“He uh, he didn’t like that.” Nick chuckled. “Not one bit. And that motherfucker would not forget it. Every fucking exercise, during drills, laps around the track, he’d find me. ‘Look, everybody! It’s Talmont’s future football star! Peyton Manning weighed two hundred pounds of rock-hard muscle his freshman year. How much do you weigh, fish?’ Shit like that.”

“Wow. He really was a prick,” I said.

“That he was,” Nick confirmed. “But he made me aware of the gap. Between fantasizing and actualizing. And instead of discouraging me once I realized how much work I was going to have to put in, all he really did was piss me off. Want to prove him wrong. And it worked. I hit the gym five days a week on top of what I was doing with ROTC. By sophomore year, I made varsity.”

I smirked. “Just in time to watch them load that dickhead into the back of a squad car.”

“He was an asshole. But he told me a truth I needed to hear. And I—” Nick choked up. “—I know it doesn’t work for everybody. But what I need is for someone to tell me the truth. Because as long as I keep thinking to myself, ‘It’s okay, you made it four steps instead of three,’ I’m never going to get out of here. I—” Nick collapsed onto the mat, accumulated sweat flying.

I went to help him, then pulled back at the last moment.

“Is that really what you want?” I asked.

It bothered me how invested I was in his answer. I was getting attached. Another sign that this relationship had run its course. If Nick said yes, it would be as simple as taking my filter off. But I’d found, on more than one occasion, that people who asked for the truth rarely wanted it.

It’s why we lie so often.

If I told him the truth, I knew with complete certainty that this odd, cobbled-together friendship we had was over.

“Yes,” Nick said.

Well. It had to end sometime.

I looked around the room. This would work better if I had a prop, something I could use to raise the stakes.

Eventually, I found it, blasting alt-rock in the palm of my hand.

“What was your goal for today?” I asked, pressing two fingers to my neck. My pulse was higher than normal. Why the fuck did I care so much?

“I need… I need to make it to the end.” He pointed to the far side of the parallel bars.

“And you’re healed enough for that?” I checked.

“PT says my leg should be weight-bearing. It just… hurts. But I think I’m done, bro. Can’t get over the mental hurdle.”

I took no joy in what I was about to do. But if this was the last time we spoke, my last opportunity to repay him for the distraction he’d unknowingly provided, I needed to do it right.

“Hey, Nick?” I said.

“W-what?” Nick sobbed. At some point, he’d started to cry.

“I’m sorry.”

I snapped a picture of him, balled up, whimpering, in a puddle of his own sweat and tears. The phone camera made the shutter noise.

“What the fuck?” Nick asked, propping himself up on one arm, expression disturbed.

For the first time in recent memory, I took the mask off. Crouched in front of him. Stuck the phone in his face. “Go on. Look at that pathetic, sniveling shit, mewling about how hard his life is. The one wasting everyone’s time. Take a good, long, look at yourself.”

Nick lunged for the phone. If he was uninjured, I wouldn’t have stood a chance of keeping it from him. As it was, all I had to do was pull my arm back. “Too slow. Just like at the game.”

Furious, he grabbed for the phone again. I kept it just out of his reach, and stood, holding the phone behind me so he could see it as I walked to the front-end of the parallel bars.

“You’re no Sergeant Ross, Matt. It’s obvious what you’re doing,” he called after me.

“You’re right. I’m not your ROTC drill sergeant.” I reached the end of the parallel bars and stared at him, disgusted. “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, motherfucker. And that—” I pointed to the wheelchair, “—is your goddamn future.”

“I’m not doing this.” Nick looked away.

“Fine with me.” I made a show of scrolling through his contacts. “Let’s see. Alexandra, Bethany, Bridget, Bridgette with extra letters, Cassie—Jesus, how many girls do you have in here?”

“Cassie’s my mom—What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I saw him in my peripheral, watching me with growing alarm.

“Composing a group text. Figured we’d send everyone an update on your progress.”

Nick’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Do I strike you as someone with a robust sense of humor?” I asked dryly.

“Give me my phone back, bro,” Nick snapped. His fear, his self-pity, was disappearing. Changing into something feral.

I dropped it onto the mat at the end of the bars. “Come and get it.”

He didn’t move.

“I don’t have to send the picture, Nick. Because pretty soon, that’s the only version of you that exists. Everyone will see it for themselves, live and in-person. And Jesus, talking about never getting out of here? What a fucking joke. I don’t care how loaded your parents are. PT’s fucking expensive. Their insurance probably covers half at most, meaning they’re covering the other half out of pocket, meaning—no matter how busy or absent they are—eventually they’re gonna be sitting in the therapist’s office, getting a status update on exactly how that money is being spent.”

“Fuck. You.” Nick grabbed the bar.

There you go. Use that anger. Channel it.

I continued, spittle flying out of my mouth. “And sure, maybe the PT milks you for a couple more months. Why give up a cash cow when it’s still producing?”

Nick screamed, pulling himself to his feet. His face was gaunt, pale, and he clung to the bars like a man holding onto a life preserver in a hurricane. But his eyes burned.

“Eventually, the therapist will come clean. He won’t tell them the truth, exactly. That you’re a self-pitying child who won’t lift a finger to aid his own recovery. He’ll find a nicer way to say it. Like, ‘I think Nicholas has made all the progress he can.’”

Nick took a step forward, and another. “You’re… a twisted… motherfucker…”

I sneered. “At least I’m honest with myself. Can you say the same? When you’re back in school, and all those people are watching you struggle to wheel yourself through the hallways, can you be honest with yourself, Nick? That the only reason you’re in a wheelchair is not because you need it—not because the injury was so severe that there was no alternative—but because you, fucking, quit.”

“I… am gonna strangle your ass… when I get there,” Nick huffed.

“Sure. I’ll schedule a time for Friday. Next week,” I said. But I was losing the venom. He was over halfway now, moving at a decent clip. Any legitimate annoyance I felt was long gone. Instead, I felt… melancholy. Almost sad.

Strange.

Nick stalled at the finish line, strands of drool dripping from his lips, his teeth. “No—fuck—I can’t do it. That’s it. I can’t do it.”

I opened my mouth, fully prepared to launch one final, verbal assault. And found that I couldn’t. Instead, I left him there and brought the wheelchair around.

“Yes you can, Nick.”

“I can’t,” Nick shouted hoarsely, his vocal cords fried.

“Just… look.” I pointed behind him.

Nick raised his head, slowly, groggily, and gawked at the distance. As I’d suspected, he’d lost track of the progress he made.

I swallowed. “All the way back there—when it took you forever to take a single step—you told me all you wanted was the truth. But if you can look how far you’ve come and tell me the person who crossed all that distance in such a short time can’t close this tiny gap? You’re lying to yourself.”

“I need a second,” Nick rasped.

“Take ten.”

Nick closed his eyes and moved. His hand slipped off the end of the bar. I caught him under his armpits before he could fall and grunted. “Got you, buddy. I’ve got you.”

By some miracle, I got him into the chair without dropping him or crumpling like a soda can.

Nick’s head lulled back, eyes half-lidded “My… phone.”

“Yup.” I scooped it up off the mat and deleted the picture. “Pic’s gone forever. You’re good.”

Goodbye, Nick.

Still out of it, Nick tried to put the phone in his pocket, realized he had none, and left it between the chair and his thigh.

His eyes focused on me. “You’re… kind of a prick.”

It stung, even though it shouldn’t have. “Yeah. Just gonna get you to your room, then I’ll fuck off, okay?”

Nick held a wobbly finger straight up, like a child with an idea. “When we do this tomorrow, maybe bring it down like a notch. Or like, four notches.”

I snorted. Then registered what he was saying. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, man,” Nick swatted at me, annoyed. “I mean forget Ross, you made Gunnery Sergeant Hartman look like Mrs. Doubtfire.”

“I got about sixty percent of that,” I hesitated. “But I just want to make sure I understand. You actually want me to come back tomorrow?”

“What?” Nick smirked. “Got a hot date you didn’t tell me about?”

“Okay, don’t be a dick.”

As far as I could tell, he was serious. I’d definitely hurt him—that was the problem with negative reinforcement, it always left a mark. But he’d forgiven it so easily. We were in uncharted territory now, and I had no idea how to proceed.

Nick’s eyes closed completely, and it looked like he was talking in his sleep. “Can we get ice cream?”

“Sure. I can pick up something from the gas station across the street.”

“Marble Slab?” Nick asked hopefully.

I rolled my eyes. “We’d need a van with a wheelchair lift again. It’s late enough that no one will notice if we borrow one of the clinic’s. Shift change is in twenty minutes, could snag the keys from behind the front desk easily enough, but I’m not gonna go through all of that if you’re just going to pass out while I’m gone.”

“I heard your entire plan, and I am awake and committed,” Nick said, forcing his eyes fully open.

“Fine. But you’re paying.”

By the time I got the keys and returned, I could hear Nick snoring from outside the door.