Chapter 19: Dad's Chair

Abram's POV

Russ VanCott rode in the passenger seat of my truck with his hands folded on his knees.

He wore his only suit, a navy one that was loose now at the collar.

"You don't have to talk," he said. "I won't be offended."

"I'm not good at small talk anyway."

"Mal told me. She said you once gave a whole speech to a goat."

"She exaggerates."

"She doesn't, usually."

We drove past the stretch of road where I had grown up, past the feed store, past the church with its white steeple.

Cars were already filling the gravel lot.

"Pull in at the back," Dad said. "I want to see who came."

I parked near the side door with the wheelchair folded in the truck bed.

The cardiologist's rules were stuck to my dashboard: twelve hours, no stairs, pills at six.

I checked my watch.

It was 7:15, and he had taken his pills at six.

Dad looked out at the lot.

"Forty-one cars," he said. "My wife can fill a room."

"Can you do this?"

"I can do nothing else."

He looked at me then, directly, with the same gray eyes Mal had.

"Dr. Castellan. May I ask you something that isn't any of my business?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you love my daughter?"

My throat closed.

I had not said it to myself yet, out loud.

"Yes."

"Does she know?"

"I think she's starting to."

"She's been taught her whole life that love is something you pay for."

"I know."

"I taught her that, by not stopping it."

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