Chapter 11: Recovery Rules

I went home on a Saturday, seven days after the surgery, with a lifting limit of ten pounds.

I also went home with a downstairs neighbor who had decided I was hers.

She was seventy-one and a retired school bus driver, and she moved into my couch with a duffel bag and a casserole.

"I drove forty kids a day for thirty-four years," she told me.

"I can handle one girl with a zipper down her chest."

"It's a scar."

"It's a zipper. Eat your chili."

I ate the chili.

By Monday she had thrown out my cough drops and labeled my pills by color.

She also informed the pharmacy that I was off sodium.

By Tuesday she had opinions about Ezra.

He came at six with a paper bag, and she opened the door before he knocked.

"You're the investor," she said.

"I am."

"The one who got fooled."

"That's me."

She looked him up and down, and he stood there and let her.

"You bring that bag in here," she said. "Wipe your feet. Don't make her laugh, it hurts her stitches."

"Yes, ma'am."

He came in, carrying lentils and a box of the tea she liked and a rotisserie chicken.

"No gifts," I said from the couch.

"It's dinner. It's for four. There are four of us."

He set the bag on the table.

"That's not a gift," he said. "That's math."

The neighbor snorted and went to find plates.

Nolan arrived ten minutes later with his laptop and a bag of oranges, looking nervous.

He stopped in the doorway when he saw the neighbor.

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