He frowned.
“You told Lucy you were coming.”
“I told Lucy I might.”
“Same thing to seven-year-old.”
Lucy exploded from house.
“Elena!”
She ran toward SUV.
Ethan called:
“Slow down.”
Lucy ignored.
Elena lowered window.
“Breakfast.”
She lifted grocery bag.
Ethan walked over.
“You brought cereal.”
“Apparently the correct amount of gratitude.”
Lucy took bag.
“There are cinnamon squares.”
“Your father should teach you privacy.”
“He tried.”
“Failed.”
“Obviously.”
Ethan looked at Elena.
“How’d you know where I live?”
She raised eyebrow.
“I own a healthcare investment firm.”
“That is not comforting.”
“Your address was on witness statement.”
“Better.”
She glanced toward workshop.
“What are you doing?”
“Brakes.”
“Can I watch?”
Ethan paused.
“You want to watch me replace brakes?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know how.”
“That usually doesn’t stop you from having opinions.”
She smiled.
“Are you flirting with me?”
Ethan nearly dropped wrench.
“No.”
Lucy shouted from porch:
“Yes!”
Both adults looked.
Lucy disappeared into house.
Elena laughed.
Ethan rubbed forehead.
“She’s available for adoption.”
“No refunds.”
“You've clearly studied policy.”
Elena transferred into wheelchair.
Ethan waited.
He never helped unless asked.
She noticed every time.
That might have been when she began liking him.
Not at pharmacy.
Not when he paid.
Not even when he refused repayment.
It was in all the small moments when he allowed her to decide whether assistance was needed.
Most people saw wheelchair first and agency second.
Ethan seemed to reverse that.
“You good?”
“Yes.”
She rolled toward workshop.
He moved a hose out of her path without comment.
Inside, she watched him work.
They talked.
Not about company.
Mostly.
He told stories about Lucy.
Rachel.
Cars.
Growing up in Dayton.
How he moved to Maple Grove because Rachel wanted quieter childhood.
Elena told him about Chicago.
Her mother.
Business school.
The accident.
Eleven months earlier, a driver ran a red light in Cincinnati and struck Elena’s car on passenger side.
Pelvic fractures.
Lumbar nerve damage.
Months in hospital.
She had been told she might never walk normally again.
“Do you?”
Ethan asked.
“Walk normally?”
“Yes.”
“What does normally mean?”
“Fair.”
She looked at her legs.
“Short distances.”
“Pain is inconsistent.”
“Some days ten steps.”
“Some days fifty.”
“Some days none.”
“You hate wheelchair?”
Elena thought.