Sam

That Friday, Sam realized that, for all he thought he knew about Artie, in reality, he knew very little. Amy had given Sam a little crash course in Artie's life, on the drive down to college, when they'd first moved into the dorms. In truth, Sam knew a little from what he'd read online, but Amy filled in the gaps that day. And Sam had a newfound respect for his friend and his challenges.

But on Friday, for maybe the first time since he'd known him, he watched Artie have a breakdown. When they'd fitted him with a brace at this appointment that Sam accompanied him to, Artie's whole face had changed. He'd tried to lean forward while wearing it, and as he did so, he realized he couldn't bend as freely with something that tight squeezing him 'round the middle. Sam hadn't expected that this would be quite as upsetting as it was to him.

"Can we have a minute?" Sam had asked the young girl, who had introduced herself as the physical therapy assistant that day. She'd looked from Artie to Sam, a hint of alarm in her eyes now, as she then nodded and backed out of the door.

Artie had continued to fight back angry tears. "This is a shit idea," he said. He hardly ever cursed. Sam knew it meant he was absolutely raging inside. "I tried to convince myself it was fine, but it's not fine. This is just gonna weaken my trunk muscles, if I wear it all the time, and it's not going to fix the actual problem. What I need is surgery."

Sam winced. "I think that's kind of for the doctor to decide, though, don't you?"

"It feels like it's going to be inevitable," Artie said, sighing deeply. "But maybe I'm wrong. Only one way to find out, though..." His eyes were dry now, as he fixed them straight ahead at the wall. "I need a second opinion. I mean, I'm an adult, right? My medical treatment's entirely up to me now. I could go someplace in Columbus. Maybe the university..."

"I just don't want to see this hurt your chances for Rio," Sam said, gently, as he crouched by Artie's chair.

"This thing is what'll hurt my chances," Artie said, gesturing at the sample brace he was still wearing, before promptly taking it off. He'd been wearing a thin tank shirt underneath, that was supposed to help keep it from rubbing up against his skin.

"This, and delaying the operation, if I really do need one," Artie went on, as he grabbed his shirt off the nearby chair and put it back on. "Because at least if I have surgery, I don't know, like over the summer or something, I'll still have two years... before Rio."

Sam fell silent a minute, and so did Artie. Finally, Sam said, "I'm sorry you feel like your doctors are letting you down."

Artie twisted his mouth thoughtfully. "Well, they aren't all that way," he said. "My therapists usually weren't. I had this awesome PT right after the accident. Javier." Artie smiled fondly at the memory of Javier. "He didn't really look like a therapist. More like a rockstar."

Sam smiled a little. "Tell me about Javier," he said.

"So, he played the bass guitar," Artie began, seemingly cheered up by the mere memory of this guy. "And he asked me if I had ever played, which I said, no I hadn't ever played an instrument except for piano, and you needed your feet to really play that. He was like, don't worry about that, piano isn't cool anyway..."

Sam laughed and so did Artie.

"... so he brought me his bass and said, if I worked really hard, he'd show me how to play in the last ten minutes of our session. He said he figured I'd pick it up fast, since I'd played piano and knew about notes and stuff already. Dude, after he did that, I worked so much harder in PT. And so after spending all those months with him, that second Christmas after my accident, I asked for my first bass guitar. All because of that guy, my PT."

"What ever happened to him?" Sam wanted to know, captivated by the story.

"Oh, he moved to Colorado," Artie said, with a laugh. "With his then fiancé. He told me all about asking her to marry him. Not something a twelve year old boy really cares about, but I guess I pretended to care. I'd known him for like four years by then. Now he's probably married and smoking weed legally every day. And helping people who hurt themselves skiing. He does still send me a card every Christmas and for my birthday."

Sam stood up suddenly, his eyes lit up with inspiration. Artie just looked mystified. "What?"

"I know what I want to do with my life."

Artie arched an eyebrow. "Move to Colorado and smoke weed?"

Sam grinned down at him. "No," he said. "Become a physical therapist."

Artie insisted that Sam's newfound purpose in life called for celebration. He started making phone calls, on the drive back home from his appointment, to see if anyone was still in Lima over the holiday weekend. (Sam had driven them to and from the appointment that day, after meticulously removing the hand controls from the pedals the way Artie had showed him how to do.)

It turned out that Puck was still in Lima, but he said was hoping to spend some time with Jake and his little sister before heading back to California. Artie told him to just bring Jake and his sister over and that his sister he could play with Sam's little brother and sister.

"What?" Artie had asked, when he hung up with Puckerman, for Sam was giving him an intense look, while stopped at a light.

"Is she a good kid?" Sam wanted to know.

"Well, I mean, probably?" was Artie's noncommittal reply. "She's... Puck's sister."

At this, they had a laugh.

"Okay, look," Artie said. "I'm fairly sure that, if my own sister didn't manage to set the treehouse on fire that time she brought scented candles up there to make it smell like peaches, then Puckerman's sister probably won't inflict any damage either."

Sam was a little uncomfortable at the mention of the treehouse and Amy, in the same sentence, and he promptly turned the topic of conversation back to Artie's appointment.

"Would... would you really want to go through with surgery again?" Sam asked, his thoughts still consumed by what had just transpired. "If that's what the next doctor you see recommends?"

"If it's what I need," Artie said, shrugging. "I mean, it was hard, when I was a freshman. I was practically bed-ridden all summer but I got through it."

"Yeah, and you kept it a secret from your friends," Sam muttered, with a little side-eye directed his way. "I didn't know you back then. If we'd known each other, would you have kept it from me?"

"Probably," Artie admitted, casting his eyes down at his lap. "You know that I didn't even tell Tina. But I wouldn't make that mistake again. I'd let my friends know."

"Good, because if you didn't, I would."

"You're a good friend, Sam," he said, then, and Sam felt his insides twist again. He didn't know if Artie would be saying that, if he knew how quickly things had progressed between he and Amy a couple nights ago.

When they arrived, Amy was already in the backyard, starting a fire, and she'd collected the ingredients for hotdogs and s'mores. It was crisp but not too cold that day, the perfect atmosphere for sitting around a campfire. Amy had arranged camping chairs in a circle around the fire pit, an obvious space left for Artie's chair. She'd also put up a screen that Artie had bought with his birthday money one year. It had a projector, for anytime they wanted to "pretend camp" and watch movies in the yard. They'd be able to start a movie as soon as the sun went down that evening.

Stacey and Stevie were already entertaining themselves on the tire swing that hung beneath the old treehouse. Amy looked up from tending to the fire to greet Sam and Artie as they entered the backyard.

"How did it go?" Amy asked, her back to them.

To which Artie replied with "fine," just as Sam was saying, "He wants a second opinion because he thinks he needs surgery."

At which, Amy stopped what she was doing and turned to face them both, eyes wide. "What?"

Artie heaved an enormous sigh. "Don't tell Mom yet," he threatened. "I don't want to freak her out. Nothing's been decided. I just want to see if there's another doctor in Columbus with a different idea."

"She's gonna find out," Amy closed the gap and leaned over him, hands on her hips. "When she gets the bill."

"I know you're still on their insurance plan, but I'm not," Artie said, and it sounded like he was sort of boasting about this. "I've got Medicare and Social Security and so there's no real reason to involve her yet. Besides, it'll just be a consultation. There would be no bill, at least, not at first."

Amy sighed. "I just care, okay, Artie? I'm your sister, it's my right. But I won't tell Mom, for now, if that's what you want."

"Thank you." Artie's eyes went up to Sam, and it couldn't have been clearer that he was dying for a subject change now. "Sam's decided he's gonna be a PT!"

Amy's eyes lit up as she looked from Artie to Sam. "You would be an amazing PT," she gushed. She looked back at Artie. "I bet he'd be just like Javier."

Artie beamed. "That's what I said."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by someone clapping him on his shoulder.

Puck had arrived, with his little sister and Jake in tow. Sam didn't know what to expect, maybe a little girl with a Mohawk? What arrived, though, was a polished, prisitine little thing with dark hair braided into pigtails and an outfit with a little pleated plaid skirt and a red sweater with a carousel horse on the front. She resembled someone, other than Puck, but Sam couldn't immediately decide who it was.

Stacey and Stevie had jumped off the tire swing to run over and greet the new kid who had just arrived.

"This is Leah," Jake said, nudging her forward a bit. "She's Noah's half-sister and my step-sister."

"I'm Stacey, and this is Stevie," said Stacey, still the apppointed spokesperson for the Evans siblings, as Stevie looked more bashful than ever. He was ten and Sam knew that he was just starting to notice pretty girls.

"Leah Sarfati," she spoke up. "Not Puckerman." She made eye contact with Stevie then and did a little curtsy.

Amy eyed the girl curiously. "Do you go to Grover Cleveland Middle School?"

Leah nodded. "I'm in seventh grade," she added.

Amy's eyes lit up. "You're in the glee club, aren't you?" she asked, as Leah nodded again. "I knew I saw your name on the list. I'm... Ms. Abrams. I'll be subbing for Mrs. Mahaney after she has her baby."

At this, Leah put her hands on her hips. "Well, good," she said, curtly. "I'm sympathetic to the trials of pregnancy, but we haven't had proper instruction in weeks."

Everyone looked at Puck as if to say where did she come from? The little Rachel Berry look-alike and sound-alike was the last thing any of them expected. Stacey's eyes were as round as saucers.

"You sound like a grown-up," she commented.

"Thank you," said Leah. "I am twelve, afterall."

"I'm nine, he's ten," said Stacey, indicating Stevie, who had yet to speak for himself. "Wanna play in with us in the treehouse?"

"I suppose," said a bored-sounding Leah, who followed Stacey as she led them up the ladder. Stevie held up at the bottom and blushed furiously.

"Puck made her put long shorts on under the skirt," Jake quickly reassured the rest of them, as they made their way over to the campfire. "Don't worry."

"Good job, Puckerman," Artie said, with a nod to the burly guy who shrugged off the compliment with a smirk. "Always gotta look out for your sister."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," said Amy, rolling her eyes, as she opened the cooler by her feet and offered Puck a beer, which he graciously accepted. She then looked at Jake. "I'm conflicted, uh, about giving you alcohol, since you go to the school I just taught at..."

"I'll give it to him," said Puck, hanging his can to Jake before extending a hand out to Amy, who laughed nervously, before giving him another one. He then studied Amy. "I remember you now, from freshman year. The senior Cheerio who was in glee club. A real trail-blazer. I bet Quinn thought that was her idea."

"I guess you didn't realize she was my sister," Artie spoke up. "Until she showed up to sub."

"Looks like Evans forgot too," Puck added, with a smirk. "Or did you date your boy's sister on purpose?"

"Okay," Amy stood up abruptly. "And, on that note, who would like a hotdog?"