Novels2Search
Chum
Chapter 150.1

Chapter 150.1

The car smells like hand sanitizer and fabric softener, which is a weirdly sterile combination for my mom’s beat-up Toyota. She’s been trying to keep it cleaner lately, probably because Kate and her dad ride with us now. It’s the kind of effort that would be sweet if it weren’t so obviously about distracting herself from the fact that we’re cramming two families into a house that already felt too small.

Kate’s in the passenger seat, hunched over her breathing apparatus - the incentive spirometer, I think - like it’s some kind of sacred relic. She’s wearing her hoodie, but I can see the straps of the ventilator harness peeking out around her shoulders, and every so often she lifts the little plastic tube to her lips and takes a deep, deliberate breath. The ball inside the tube wobbles up, then sinks back down, over and over again. It’s almost hypnotic.

I’m in the backseat, squished up against the door with my burn-wrapped arm resting awkwardly on my lap. The pressure of the bandages is supposed to be "therapeutic," but mostly it’s just annoying. I can’t exactly argue with the results, though; the skin underneath has gone from looking like melted wax to something resembling a scabbed-over sunburn. Progress, I guess.

Mom glances at Kate as we hit a red light, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. “How’s the breathing thing going, Kate?” she asks, her voice way too chipper for this early in the morning.

Kate doesn’t look up from the tube. “It’s fine,” she says, her voice muffled but clear enough. She’s gotten better at hiding the wheeze lately, but I’ve still got a good ear for it. It’s there, lurking at the edge of her words like a snake at the edge of the grass.

“Good,” Mom says, nodding like that’s the end of the conversation. But of course, it’s not. “Your dad mentioned you’ve been using it more often. That’s great! The more you practice, the stronger your lungs will get.”

Kate nods without saying anything, lifting the tube to her lips again. The little ball wobbles. Up. Down. Up. Down. It’s like she’s trying to tune us out entirely. Honestly, I don’t blame her.

Mom switches gears, probably hoping for an easier target. “Sam, how’s your arm feeling today?”

“Fine,” I say automatically, which is a lie. It’s stiff and itchy and feels like someone’s stapled a layer of plastic wrap to my skin, but “fine” is easier than explaining all that.

She glances at me in the rearview mirror, her eyebrows pulling together. “You’re not pushing yourself too hard, are you?”

“Nope,” I say, popping the “p” for emphasis. “Being a model patient.”

Kate snorts quietly but doesn’t look up. I shoot her a quick glare, but she doesn’t notice, or maybe she just doesn’t care.

The light turns green, and Mom focuses back on the road. For a while, the only sounds are the hum of the engine, the faint whoosh of passing cars, and the rhythmic wobble of Kate’s breathing tube. I tap my fingers against my knee, trying to fill the silence, but it’s like throwing pebbles into a bottomless well. The quiet just swallows everything up.

After a couple more tries at conversation that go absolutely nowhere, Mom finally gives up. She turns on the radio, and the tinny sounds of a pop station fill the car. It’s not great, but it’s better than nothing.

I glance out the window, watching the neighborhood blur past. The bare trees look like skeletons against the gray sky, their branches swaying gently in the wind. It’s not quite warm enough to feel like spring, but the snow is mostly gone, leaving behind soggy lawns and piles of dirty slush.

The therapist’s office is in one of those buildings that’s trying way too hard to look fancy but just ends up looking like a dentist’s waiting room. There’s a big glass door with gold lettering, a little patch of landscaping with half-dead bushes, and a parking lot that’s always way too full. Mom pulls into a spot near the entrance and turns off the engine.

"Okay," Mom says, putting the car in park. "Sam, you’re with Miss Friedman today, right? And Kate, you’re with Dr. Alvarez?"

“Got it,” I say, opening my door. The cold air hits me like a slap, and I pull my jacket tighter around myself as I climb out. Kate follows suit, clutching her breathing apparatus like it’s a lifeline. For all I know, maybe it is. Kate grabs her backpack, sliding out of the car without a word. I unbuckle my seatbelt and start to follow her, but Mom stops me with a hand on my arm.

"Hey," she says, her voice low. "Be nice, okay?"

I frown at her, confused. "I am being nice."

She gives me a look, the kind that says she knows I’m full of it. "Just... try a little harder," she says. "She’s going through a lot."

I bite back the urge to say that I’m going through a lot too and just nod. "Okay," I mutter, slipping out of the car before she can lecture me any further.

Kate’s already halfway to the building, her bag slung over one shoulder and her breathing thing clutched in her hand. I hurry to catch up, falling into step beside her. She doesn’t say anything, and I don’t either. The sound of her measured breaths fills the space between us, steady and deliberate, like she’s counting each one.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Mom watches us as we head toward the building, her expression unreadable. I can feel her eyes on my back, but I don’t turn around. I know what she’s thinking. She’s wondering how we ended up here, how everything got so tangled and messy. She’s wondering if there’s anything she could’ve done differently.

----------------------------------------

I’m sitting on the edge of a padded table, rolling my good shoulder while trying not to jostle my right arm too much. Miss Friedman is across the room, checking something on her clipboard.

"How’s the range of motion today?" she asks without looking up.

"Better," I say, which is true. Kind of. I can move my arm more than I could last week, but it still feels stiff, like there’s a rubber band wrapped around my shoulder, pulling everything tight.

She glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "Better how? Be specific."

I sigh, rolling my good shoulder again to buy myself a second. "I can lift it higher, but not for long," I admit. "And it still feels weird when I try to rotate it."

She nods, jotting something down. "Weird how?"

"Like... tight," I say, fumbling for the right words. "And kind of... sharp? Not all the time, just if I push too far."

"Got it," she says, setting the clipboard aside. "Okay, let’s start with some basic stretches. Same as last time. And remember, no pushing past a six on the pain scale."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, grabbing the resistance band she hands me. "I know the drill."

The stretches are slow and deliberate, each movement designed to pull me just to the edge of discomfort without tipping over into pain. My right arm feels heavy and awkward, like it doesn’t quite belong to me. The burn scars make the skin feel tight and stiff, and every time I reach for something, it’s like my body is reminding me not to overdo it.

Miss Friedman watches me like a hawk, stepping in to adjust my posture or correct my grip when I get sloppy. "You’re compensating with your left side again," she says, tapping my shoulder lightly. "Keep it balanced."

"I’m trying," I say through gritted teeth. The resistance band stretches and contracts, the tension just enough to make my muscles ache in a way that’s more annoying than painful.

After a few sets, she takes the band away and hands me a small foam ball. "Let’s work on your grip strength," she says. "Squeeze it slowly, ten reps."

I do as I’m told, but halfway through, she starts talking about my recovery timeline, and I can feel my frustration bubbling up before she even finishes her sentence.

"With your healing factor, you’re making great progress," she says, her tone light, quiet, but firm. "But you still need to be cautious. The scar tissue is delicate, and if you push too hard, you could set yourself back."

I stop mid-squeeze, my jaw tightening. "How long are we talking?"

"It depends," she says, crossing her arms. "If you’re careful and stick to the plan, you could regain full range of motion in maybe five, six weeks. But if you reinjure yourself..."

"Six weeks?" I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "I’m already healing faster than normal. Why is it taking so long?"

She gives me a look, the kind that says she’s heard this argument a hundred times before. "Because faster doesn’t mean invincible," she says, her tone patient but firm. "Your body is doing a lot of work right now, and if you don’t let it finish the process, you’re just going to make things worse."

I bite back a retort and focus on the foam ball, squeezing it until my hand starts to cramp. Six weeks. It feels like forever, even though I know it’s not. I just can't promise I won't do something stupid in that time.

A door opens across the room, and Kate walks in, her breathing thing in one hand and a water bottle in the other. She looks a little tired, but there’s a determination in her step that I haven’t seen in a while. Her therapist, a tall guy with a friendly smile, follows behind her, carrying a clipboard.

"Ready for the obstacle course?" he asks, his tone teasing.

Kate rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. "Yeah, let’s get it over with," she says, setting her stuff down on a nearby bench.

I watch as they set up a series of cones and hurdles, each one spaced just far enough apart to make it challenging. Kate stretches her arms and legs, moving with a kind of deliberate precision that makes me feel like I’m slouching just by existing.

"You want to race?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Kate looks at me, her eyebrows raised. "You’re kidding, right?"

"Why not?" I say, standing up and flexing my good arm. "I can still move. And it’s not like you’re running a marathon."

She smirks, her eyes narrowing. "Alright," she says. "But don’t cry when I leave you in the dust."

"Please," I say, already moving toward the starting line. "I’m basically part shark. You don’t stand a chance."

Miss Friedman gives me a warning look but doesn’t stop me, probably because she knows I’m stubborn enough to do it anyway. Kate’s therapist counts us off, and we’re off.

The first cone comes up fast, and I weave around it without too much trouble. My shoulder protests a little, but I ignore it, focusing on the next hurdle. Kate’s ahead of me, her movements smooth and efficient, but I manage to keep pace, my competitive streak kicking in.

By the time we reach the last cone, I’m out of breath and my shoulder is screaming, but I push through anyway, crossing the finish line just a step behind Kate.

"Not bad," she says, panting a little as she leans against a nearby bench. "For someone who’s half-bandaged."

"Not bad yourself," I say, trying to catch my breath. "For someone who... almost died."

Her smile falters for a second, but she recovers quickly, giving me a playful shove. "Next time, I’m leaving you in the dust."

"Next time," I agree, sitting down on the bench and letting my head fall back against the wall.

Miss Friedman appears a moment later, her expression half-annoyed, half-amused. "That wasn’t exactly part of the plan," she says, crossing her arms.

"Yeah, well," I say, waving a hand. "Plans are overrated."

She shakes her head but doesn’t push the issue. Kate’s therapist gives her a thumbs-up, and she heads back to her breathing exercises, leaving me to stretch out my arm and pretend I’m not completely wiped.

By the time we're done, Mom’s car is already waiting in the parking lot, the engine idling as she scrolls through her phone.

Kate and I climb into the backseat, both of us too tired to say much. She leans her head against the window, her breathing thing resting on her lap, while I stretch out as much as my sling will allow.

"How’d it go?" Mom asks, glancing at us in the rearview mirror.

"Fine," I say, my voice muffled as I adjust my position. "Same as usual."

"Kate?"

"Good," Kate says, her tone clipped. "Better than last time."

Mom nods, her eyes flicking between us for a moment before she pulls out of the lot. The car is quiet again, the only sounds the faint hum of the engine and the soft tapping of Kate’s fingers against her water bottle.