August 4th

"Doctor Goldman, I could really use your help."

Sarah looked up from her book to find Greg's physical therapist in front of her. The younger woman wore an expression of utter frustration; she actually wrung her hands. Sarah sighed and put the bookmark in place. She didn't have to ask what this was about.

"Okay. Give me a second," she said, and took her phone out of her pocket. She sent a quick text to Roz: meet me in PT 10 min S. Then she got to her feet, stretched a little and offered the therapist a nod. "Lead on," she said.

Greg sat by a window in the PT room. He stared out at the grey day and soft rain as it fell on yellowed grass. When they entered he turned his head. His eyes widened just a little before they narrowed, to give Sarah and the therapist a hard glare. "Uh oh," he said, heavy on the sarcasm. "I'se in trouble now."

Sarah hid a smile. She wondered how many times Blythe House had confronted this attitude in her little boy—defiance plastered over anxious uncertainty. If only she'd had the eyes to see what lies beneath, she thought, and knew it was an unfair observation; Greg's mother had barely been able to take care of herself, never mind a little boy with gifts she couldn't begin to comprehend. "Heard you're having trouble with PT," Sarah said out loud, and gave her words a cheerful edge she knew would piss Greg off no end. She was right.

"I'm not having trouble," he snapped. "I need someone who knows what the hell they're doing, that's all. This moron," he waved his hand at the therapist, "should be out on the corner with a 'will work for cheap massage oil' sign around her neck."

The young woman bristled, but before the fight could start in earnest Sarah grabbed a chair, pulled it up to a table and sat down. "Let's make this interesting then," she said. "I'll arm-wrestle you. You win, I bring you a treat. You name it and it's yours. I win, you do what the therapist tells you for the next half hour without giving her a hard time."

Greg tilted his head and focused his stare on her. "Pie in the sky," he said.

"Uh uh," Sarah said. "Girl's honor."

"Hah," Greg said, but he rolled his wheelchair over to the table and locked the brake. "No cheating."

"Yeah, right," Sarah said on a laugh. "All's fair, son." She reached into her pocket and took out a ponytail elastic. She pulled her curls back tightly, secured the fastener, spit in her palm and put her arm in position, hand up. Greg smiled a mean little smile. He lifted his arm to the table and slapped his palm to hers, and the battle was on.

[H]

Roz paused in the doorway. She watched as Greg pressed Sarah's arm to the table. A few cheers and hand claps supplied by patients accompanied his victory. Sarah laughed, her fair face flushed with effort. "Okay," she said, "fair's fair. What do you want for your treat?"

Greg shook his hand. His fingers were red. "Damn, woman. I may never jerk off again."

"Such a whiny wimp," Sarah said. She took the elastic out of her hair and shook her head, curls flying. "Tell me what you want."

He didn't answer right away. Then he said, "Guitar." He didn't look at Sarah, his gaze averted. If Sarah was surprised she didn't show it.

"Okay, cool," she said. "What make?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Something . . . something used."

"Okay," Sarah said again. She got to her feet. "While you're waiting, how about giving the therapist a second chance?"

"Nope," Greg said. "I won. That means I'm done for the day."

Roz stepped out of the doorway. "Not if I win two out of three," she said. Greg swung his gaze around to her, then to Sarah.

"Tattletale," he accused. Sarah shrugged.

"When necessary." She glanced at Roz, her eyes bright with amusement. "He likes to use his nails," she said. "And he stomped on my feet."

"Hey!" Greg said, indignant, but Sarah had already slipped out of the room. Roz came forward and sat at the table.

"So you play dirty. Eeeeexcellent," she said.

"Shit," Greg groaned, but he put his arm up and gave her what he obviously considered to be his best take-down stare. His eyes glittered with anticipation and something she thought might be humor.

He won the first round. Roz made sure it wasn't too easy. "I need to switch," she said, "got a cramp in my thumb," and put up her other hand, her shortened pinky on display. Greg stared at it, then at her. A sly smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

"Oho," he said, "dirty deeds done dirt cheap already. Fine. You asked for it."

He did indeed use his nails, though he was careful to leave her little finger alone. Roz knew it was a distraction for him, however slight. She waited for her chance, and when it came she seized it. As he pressed her arm down she faked a gasp of pain and curled her pinky as best she could. Greg relented for a moment and she pushed to pin him with everything she had.

"Bitch," he said when she let him loose. "Bring it on."

"Shut up and play," she said. She put her hand in place and looked down her nose at him. He gave her a brief grin and clasped her palm. Slowly he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Roz shivered as his lips brushed her skin. He pulled his head away as he shoved her almost to the tabletop. She caught him in time and levered his arm upward. Her breath hissed through her teeth at the strain.

"You've already lost," Greg said. He dug his nails into her palm. Roz glared at him while she slipped one foot out of its flipflop. With infinite care she lifted her leg, stretched it full-length and found his ankle. Greg flinched. "Knock it off," he growled. Roz gave him an innocent look.

"Something wrong?" She touched his skin, let her toes slide up his shin under his jeans, moved up and down with light, slow strokes as she caressed the hard muscle of his lower calf. Greg tried to pull his leg away but was trapped by the wheelchair.

"Dirty little cheater," he said under his breath, and gripped her hand tight enough to cut off the circulation in her fingers. Roz let her arm waver a bit, as if she was couldn't concentrate. He made his move and tried to force her down. She licked her lips and leaned forward to display as much cleavage as she could above her tank top. Greg's gaze flickered, and she slammed him to the tabletop. Her toes pinched him for good measure.

"Aaagh! All right already!" He let go of her and nursed his bruised phalanges while the other patients laughed and clapped, but he smiled a little. "Brat. Fine, I'll do my damn exercises."

Roz took his hand in hers. "I'll do them with you," she said, and lifted his hand to her lips. She brushed a kiss over each reddened knuckle. When she was done she leaned in and kissed him, oblivious to the cheers and catcalls her action created.

"Now see, if therapy was this much fun I wouldn't get bored," Greg said when he could speak. Roz kissed the top of his head.

"We're ready," she said to the therapist, who had watched the proceedings with a look of utter disbelief.

They got through the half hour of exercises and went off to lunch. Roz walked next to Greg's chair. "What's up for this afternoon?" she asked.

"You tell me," Greg said, and gave her a pinch. Roz rolled her eyes.

"The doctor said no sex for a week."

"He said no intercourse. That leaves all kinds of things on the table."

"No it doesn't," Roz said. "I was there. He said no sex for seven days after the surgery. It's only day two."

"Damn, I would have to find a woman who can count." He yelped when she thumped the top of his head with her thumb and forefinger. "Hey, convalescing patient here!"

"Horndog opportunist, more like," she said, and made him go ahead of her in line. He pouted, but brightened at the sight of the goodies she piled on the tray, along with two large fountain Cokes.

They'd just finished off a pair of enormous chocolate-chip cookies when Sarah sat down next to them. "Mission accomplished," she said, and looked pleased with herself.

"So where's the treat?" Greg demanded.

"Back in the room. I figured we could take them to OT where we wouldn't disturb anyone."

"We?" Greg stole the bite of cookie Roz had in her hand and stuffed it in his mouth. He gave her a 'haha' look. She wrinkled her nose at him, glad to see he'd moved from intractable to teasing.

"I got something for me too," Sarah said. "It was too good to pass up. You'll see."

By the time they reached the OT common room Greg almost danced with impatience. He took the first case Sarah offered him, set it on the table and popped it open, studied the contents for a moment, then removed the guitar to look it over. "Martin cutaway. This thing's a cannon," he said. He settled the instrument in place and began to tune it. "Nice condition. Where'd you find it?"

"A store on the south side. One of the orderlies took me down and back," Sarah said. She had a slightly smaller guitar cradled in her hands. It was solid black with a filigreed pickguard. "I got extra strings and some picks."

Greg glanced at her. "Epiphone, Hummingbird Artist," he said. "Decent."

"Thanks." Sarah nodded at him. "Give it a try."

Roz watched him while he played some chords—noodling, that was the term he'd used before. She loved the expression he wore when he made music. Those vivid eyes grew dark and pensive as his restless mind found a temporary respite in the mix of mathematical precision and emotional freedom music provided . . . She was brought back to the present as he launched into something bluesy. His long, clever fingers teased a complex melody from the bright strings. A few moments in Sarah began to back him with basic rhythm as she followed him effortlessly. He acknowledged her with a slight smile. Roz felt an ache deep in her secret heart. She would never be able to do this with him, would never have the ability to speak this wordless language . . . but she could listen and appreciate his skill, if nothing else.

The song ended and the patients in the room applauded, as did Roz. Sarah leaned back a little. "Sounds good," she said. "I thought it would suit you."

"Sounds great." Greg picked a couple of notes. "Nice treat."

"I think so too," Sarah said with a smile.

The impromptu session ended when Sarah headed off for a nap. Roz would have left too, but Greg took her hand when she got to her feet. She sat down again, surprised. Usually he preferred to be alone after so much interaction with others.

"You don't have to go," he said, and didn't look at her. Roz resumed her seat.

"I like to listen to you," she said quietly. He let go of her, but moved the chair so he faced away from the window and toward her. When he began to play again, the style was different—not striding or cocky, this was gentle, introspective, with a dark undertone of melancholy that was somehow sweet and not bitter. Roz sat entranced. She'd known he was capable of great emotional expression in his playing, but this was far beyond that. And then it dawned on her that he played this for her. The realization took her breath away. She hardly dared move, afraid she would ruin the moment, end it when she wanted it to go on forever.

She listened for a long time, while rain streaked down the window and cool soft light illuminated Greg's skilled hands as he revealed his love, note by note.