Chapter 23: The Yellow Ramp

"I want to come home with you," Terrence said on the headquarters steps.

"Not to the hospital. To the house, with Lottie, every night, for as long as you'll have me."

"That's the first thing," I said.

"The second thing is a question I'm going to ask you someday."

"I'd like you to know it's coming."

"Ask it now."

"No." He smiled, and it was the first full smile I had seen on him in four years.

"You'll want to be sure first. I'll wait until you're ready."

"Then ask me at Christmas."

He went very still.

"You haven't come to one in four years," I said. "Come to this one, and ask me there."

"I'll come early," he said. "I'll bring the tree."

Lottie was discharged on a Thursday in November.

She rode out of the burn unit in a wheelchair, with a pink brace on one leg.

Biscuit sat in her lap.

The nurses lined the corridor and clapped, and Lottie waved at each one like a queen.

Terrence drove us home at fifteen miles an hour.

"Dad, you're slow," Lottie said from the back seat.

"I'm careful."

"You're slow and careful."

"Yes."

Our house came into view at the end of the street, and I did not recognize it.

A long wooden ramp ran up the front steps to the porch, sanded smooth, with a railing on both sides.

The railing was painted a bright yellow.

A crew of firefighters in navy T-shirts stood in the yard with their hands in their pockets.

The young firefighter held a hand-lettered sign.

"Welcome Home Lottie," it said, in red marker, covered in signatures.

"You built it?" I said.

"It took us a weekend," the older firefighter said, red to his ears.

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