Chapter 8: The Garden

The rehab center's garden was a square of wet grass with four benches and a birdbath.

Quinn sat in a wheelchair under a tree with a blanket over his knees and a walker parked beside him.

I came across the grass with a covered dish and a thermos. He watched me the whole way.

"You didn't have to bring food," he said.

"It's chicken and rice. My grandmother's neighbor made it, and she'll ask me how you liked it."

"She's going to ask about me?"

"She asks about everyone. It's easier to answer."

I handed him a fork.

He ate the first bite with his left hand, because his right wrist was in a cast.

"Stop looking at my scar," he said.

"I wasn't."

"Everybody does. It's from a hook on a winch line when I was nineteen. Say what you came to say."

I sat on the bench beside his chair and put my hand on my belly.

"I'm not going to tell you to turn it down."

"No?"

"Four hundred thousand dollars pays your hospital bill, your rent and your sister's mortgage. I'm a hygienist. I can't beat that."

"So why did you come?"

"Because I read the paper. I want you to know exactly what you'd be selling."

He put down the fork.

"Tell me."

"The clause says you can't name the driver to anyone. Not the police, not a judge, not a reporter."

"I know. You read it to me."

"It also says you can't testify against her without a subpoena."

"And it says you accept the money as full payment for any future medical need."

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