“Then I’ll hate it tomorrow.”

His mouth twitched.

“You don’t pity me, do you?” he asked.

“Honey, I feel for you, and I’m here to help. But pity? I don’t have the time.”

That became our rhythm. He snapped. I snapped back. Eventually, he let me help.

One afternoon, while I repaired the brake on his chair, he asked, “Was Lisa in college?”

“Community college. She loved it.”

“What did she study?”

“Everything. Nursing, design, psychology, then accounting because numbers made sense. She was still choosing.”

He almost smiled.

“She once bought a yellow raincoat keychain because she said it looked emotionally supportive. She would have argued with you like crazy, Adrian.”

He dropped his spoon.

His face had gone pale. “A yellow raincoat?”

I stared at him. “Yes.”

“Was it hanging from her car mirror?”

My hand froze on the chair brake.

“Adrian, how did you know that?”

He turned his chair toward the window. “Lucky guess.”

“No,” I said. “Nobody guesses a yellow raincoat keychain hanging from a car mirror.”

The hospital called before he answered.

Just like that, Adrian got to keep his secret a little longer.

I stepped into the hallway.

Dr. Evans’ voice came through low and careful. “Lisa’s rehab spot can only be held until tomorrow morning.”

I closed my eyes. “You said Friday.”

“I tried to extend it.”

“Then tell me what happens if I can’t pay.”