July 14th

(Sarah stands at the gate to a yard she knows well, having visited it twice now. It had progressed from sun-burned barren lot to a shady haven the last time she saw it; now it's a garden, the lush hedges bordered by flowers of every kind, from zinnias and marigolds to rare perennials. Long shadows fall across the thick grass of the lawn; twilight has lowered its deep blue banner, and the first stars have begun to show.

Greg sits in a wheelchair under the big tree. A soft evening breeze laden with the fragrance of growing things rustles the leaves above his head, but he seems oblivious to the beauty around him. He's older than the last time she saw him here. If she had to hazard a guess, he's in his mid-thirties. He's still lean and rangy, his face without the lines caused by the passage of time that he bears in the real world, but there's a brooding, sullen pain she hasn't seen in a long while. As she approaches he lifts his gaze to hers. Vivid blue eyes give her a contemptuous glance before he looks away in dismissal. His hand moves to his right thigh, covers it. Now she sees he wears a hospital gown. There are discolored splotches over the area of his wound.

"What do you want?" His voice is harsh, freighted with barely-contained fury. Sarah stops a few feet away.

"Came to see you," she says.

"Came to see the freak show, more like," he sneers. "Fuck off!"

"You're not a freak."

"Everyone's a freak. It's just easier to see with me right now." He tips his head back a bit and glares at her. "You might be an exception though." He grabs the cloth of his gown and yanks it back to reveal his leg. "Take a good look. That's what you're here for anyway."

The scar is new and raw, red and swollen, the gully of missing muscle even more obvious; the sutures still hold together pale, vulnerable flesh carved into hideous ridges. Sarah feels a huge lump of grief constrict her throat. "I'm so sorry," she says softly.

"Yeah, that's a huge comfort." Greg pulls the gown back in place. "Get out."

"I have scars too," she says, and extends her arm to show him the ragged cuts that are still there in her memory, despite the new skin graft.

"What part of get out don't you understand?" he snaps. "I don't give a fuck about what's happened to you!"

"Listen to me," she says. "The hole in your leg is a damn tragedy, and that's no lie. But you can still play music. You can work. You can find someone to love—"

"Shut up! You have no idea what the hell you're talking about!" He slams the arm of the chair with his fist. "You think someone's gonna hire a cripple for anything beyond a quota fulfillment? That any woman will want this mess within a fifty-foot radius? As for music—" His voice cracks on the last word; he's about two seconds from a total breakdown. "I can't even sit at the piano without ending up in agony after five minutes!"

"Greg . . ." She comes closer, takes a breath and says what has to be said. "This isn't your reality any longer."

There is a long silence. When she finally looks it is to find he stares at the ground, head bowed.

"It will always be what's real." She can barely hear him.

"That's your fear and years of pain talking. You think I don't understand that?" She holds up her hand for him to see. Her wedding ring glitters in the dying light. "I found a man who loves me, scars and all. I found work I enjoy. I make music every day, even when it hurts. That wasn't what was real for me when I cut my arm to hell, but I changed. You have too." She hesitates. "We're good friends because of all this, you know."

He still won't look at her. "Bullshit."

"No it isn't." She dares to take a final step to stand by the wheelchair. "It's the truth. You can leave this behind and move on, Greg. It's all right. Come with me. It's time to go home now."

"It's all I've got, this place." It's a rough whisper. "I don't have anywhere else."

"Yes you do. Let me show you."

She stands behind his chair, and then they are moving toward the gate. He's scared, she knows he is, but he doesn't try to stop her. Soon enough they are poised on the threshold. Beyond the yard there's a party going on; people sit in a circle, they hold musical instruments and they talk and laugh as they tune together. "We can join them," she says softly. She sees Gene, and Roz sits next to him. "They're waiting for us."

"I can't." The anguish in his voice breaks her heart. "I can't."

"You already have." Sarah puts her hand on his shoulder for a moment. "'Shingle by shingle,'" she sings softly, "'I'm patchin' up the roof, row by row I'm bringin' in the crop . . ."

He's listening, she can feel him intent on every note, every word.

"'Love makes a change and I'm livin' the proof, new water's in the well and I'm grateful for every drop.'" She finishes the song and gives him a little caress. "Everything you want and need is there for you, son. Just move forward."

For a long, long time he sits there, watches the people in the circle. She can see just enough of his face to catch the desperate longing and also the terror that holds him back. And then finally, he reaches up and grabs her hand.

"You'll . . . you'll come with me."

"Always," she says without hesitation. His fingers give hers a squeeze—the only way he can acknowledge her offer and thank her, she knows. Then he lets go and grips the wheels of his chair, takes a breath, and pushes over the threshold . . .)

"Hey."

Sarah woke with a start. She glanced at Greg; he was awake, his gaze intent, searching.

"Hey," she said, and yawned. "How are you feeling?"

"You were dreaming," he said. Sarah put her hand over his, felt his fingers curl around hers in a firm clasp, and smiled.

"Yes, I was," she said. "Are you thirsty? Doctor Taub said you can have clear liquids."

"Only if that means coffee and doughnuts," Greg said. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"You'll have ginger ale and crackers for now and be happy you're getting that much, you ingrate." She gently rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. "Anything else you need?"

A month in Fiji with nothing on my mind but getting my wife naked and acquiring a tan." He closed his eyes. "Wish this was over."

"You'll be home in a couple of days," Sarah said. "I think you'll heal fast."

"You're gonna stay here the whole time." It was said in a sarcastic tone, but she heard the echo of anxiety behind the words.

"Just nights," she said. "Sometimes it's kinda nice to wake up and find someone there."

Greg said nothing, but his fingers tightened on hers for a moment as he looked away.

He'd just finished his second cracker when Roz came into the ward. Sarah moved out of the way, delighted by the way Greg's face brightened at the sight of his wife. Without a word she gathered up her things and left them alone.

"I'll be there in five," Gene said when she called him. "Jason wants us to stop by the bakery on the way home, are you up for that?"

"Sure," Sarah said. She thought of a cherry danish and her mouth watered. "Throw in a cream cake for dinner tonight, we'll have it with the last of the fresh strawberries."

Minivan entry and exit was still a procedure she hated, but it was less onerous than it had been even a few days ago. "Taub says you'll be free of the chair by the end of next week," Gene said as he pushed the front door open. "Your first PT session is on Wednesday. You'll be out in the garden again in no time."

"Actually I think we've left it for good," Sarah murmured.

Gene paused as he eased her over the threshold. "What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Just . . . thinking out loud." She saw Jason get up from the couch and hurry toward her; she lifted her good arm for his careful embrace, glad to be home.

'Shingle By Shingle,' Eric Bibb