In April, my brother asked Noelle to be his girlfriend with a poster that ran out of room.
By then, the weeks after Dashiell’s evaluation had finally stopped feeling like something I had to survive one at a time. I still had more appointments than anybody should reasonably need, and the calendar on my bedroom wall was covered in Maekynzie’s color-coded handwriting, but there were finally days when I had something to look forward to besides getting discharged.
The chemotherapy kept coming in five-day hospital blocks, followed by stretches at home when we watched my counts fall and waited for them to recover. Some cycles had to be pushed back. My mouth healed, broke down again, and healed. There were mornings when I could manage toast and afternoons when the smell of it made me reach for the pink bucket. Aurora Children’s Medical Center had become a place I knew too well, from the elevators that took forever to the corner of the family lounge where Pops could usually find a chair.
On the days I felt halfway decent, I tried to do something other than stare at the television. Sometimes that meant sitting outside with Bernard. Other times it meant convincing Dad that I could finish my homework without him checking on me every fifteen minutes. He’d gotten very good at appearing in doorways with a cup of water and pretending he hadn’t come down the hall specifically to see whether I was still breathing.
Chandler came when he could, and when he couldn’t, he told me why instead of pretending his entire life could fit around mine. He sat with me through long appointments, flashcards spread across his knees, and sometimes quizzed Stetson over video calls while I slept. He learned which vending machine swallowed wrinkled dollar bills and which nurses would let him borrow a pen. Thanks to Lylah, half the oncology floor had seen the video of Maverick dragging him across the play yard, and Angelina called him Husky Boy. Every time she said it, the tips of his ears turned pink.
He didn’t make every appointment, and I didn’t ask him to. Some mornings Uncle Jake needed him, some afternoons he had practice, and once he stayed home because he had a fever and the oncology team would’ve escorted him out if he’d shown up.
Maekynzie’s new Chemo Calendar went up on the wall of my downstairs bedroom, where I could see it from bed. Maekynzie showed up on her days, sometimes with homework and sometimes with her phone full of videos of people falling off things they had absolutely no business climbing. She’d finally retrieved her old tote bag from my closet, although she continued borrowing my clothes whenever she thought I wouldn’t notice. She also learned to sit quietly when I needed quiet, which was something neither of us would’ve believed possible a year ago.
Later in April, Stetson finally asked Noelle to be his girlfriend, and he did it like someone who’d been planning it for years and preparing for about six minutes.
He swept the back deck twice that afternoon, which nobody in our family had ever done voluntarily. When Noelle came over after dinner, he asked me to come outside, too. “Moral support,” he said, pushing my wheelchair through the door before I could ask whose.
Noelle sat on the deck steps. Stetson stood in front of her with a piece of poster board pressed facedown against his chest.
“All right,” he said. “So.”
“So,” Noelle said.
He turned the poster around. In black marker, in letters that started huge and got smaller and more desperate toward the edge, it said I know it’s been obvious since fourth grade but. That was it. The rest of the sentence wasn’t there.
Noelle tilted her head. “But what?”
Stetson looked down at the poster, then flipped it over as if the ending might be on the back. “I ran out of room.”
“You ran out of room.”
“The letters got away from me.”
Noelle laughed so hard she had to grab the railing. My brother turned the color of a ripe tomato, and I put a hand over my mouth.
“Stet,” I said. “Use your words.”
He glared at me, then looked back at Noelle. “Will you be my girlfriend? That was the rest. It was going to be really good.”
Noelle wiped her eyes. “Yes.” She took the poster from him and studied it. “Finally.”
From the living-room window, Pops started clapping. Dad stood beside him, looking like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Noelle kissed Stetson’s cheek, and my brother glanced at me over her shoulder and mouthed something I was fairly sure Dad wouldn’t approve of. I blew him a kiss and watched him get even more offended.
Chandler went back to soccer that spring. Not because I made him, although that didn’t stop me from asking how things were going whenever he came over after practice.
We were sitting on the back deck one afternoon when I asked whether he’d told Coach Hartman he wanted a real shot at starting in the fall. Chandler picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, looking considerably less confident than he usually did when we talked about soccer. He’d owned up to missing conditioning and hadn’t missed a session since, but asking for a starting spot was another conversation.
“You still want to play,” I said, watching him twist the thread around his finger.
“Yeah. I just don’t know what he’ll say.” He glanced toward the yard, where Bernard was attempting to convince a squirrel that they could be friends.
“Then ask.” I shifted my wheelchair closer, keeping my left leg supported. “You’re allowed to want something that has nothing to do with me.”
“And you’re allowed to tell me to stop talking about soccer if you’re sick of it.”
“Please. I’ve listened to Stetson analyze the same missed goal for forty minutes. You have competition.”
He called Hartman the next day. There wasn’t a magical open spot waiting with his name on it, but there was a way: keep showing up and keep earning his minutes. Chandler took it, and by May he was getting time on the field. Hartman told him he’d have a chance to compete for a starting position in the fall, which was enough to send Uncle Jake into a celebration usually reserved for winning championships.
By early May, after the rescue completed its application review, home visit, and gradual transition, Dash moved in with Chandler and Uncle Jake. Miss Davison made a point of reminding me that the evaluation hadn’t magically cured his anxiety. He’d still need patience, familiar routines, and time, which Chandler had already been giving him for months.
By the end of his first week, Dash had claimed the corner of their couch nearest the window. Uncle Jake sent a photo of himself squeezed onto the remaining cushion with the caption Apparently I live here by permission.
When Chandler brought Dash over, Bernard welcomed him like a long-lost relative. They developed a habit of circling the backyard together, Bernard prancing and Dash trotting behind with the expression of a dog who’d accidentally joined a parade. Pops complained about the muddy trail they wore into the grass while standing at the window taking pictures.
Maverick found a home in April, too. A retired couple outside Elizabeth had a fenced yard and an older Husky who considered howling a competitive sport. Miss Davison sent me a video of both dogs singing at a passing fire truck. Maverick’s new people were laughing in the background, which felt like a promising sign. He’d been returned twice for having too much personality, and I was glad somebody had finally decided that was exactly the right amount.
One Thursday in May, my counts were finally high enough that Dr. Giacherio was comfortable with me spending an afternoon outside, away from crowds. Dad offered to drive me to the lake, Pops offered to pack enough food for a family reunion, and I asked for the back deck instead.
“That’s it?” Dad asked, pausing with his keys in his hand.
“That’s it. I want to sit in the sun and not have anyone ask me whether I’ve eaten.” I glanced toward the back door, where Pops had just appeared carrying a plate of crackers. “Exhibit A.”
Pops looked down at the plate, then at me. “I was bringing these for myself.”
“Sure you were.”
He set them on the counter, looking offended on behalf of carbohydrates everywhere, while Dad put his keys away. Neither of them tried to turn my afternoon into a special occasion, although Pops did bring me a blanket and remind me to call if I needed anything.
Maekynzie came by after school because Thursday was on her calendar. She brought her algebra homework and sat at the deck table while Bernard inspected the grass below the steps. Ten minutes in, I got tired of the sun and asked her to help me move into the shade. She put down her pencil, checked that my wheelchair brakes were released, and asked where I wanted to go without making a production out of the fact that our grand afternoon had lasted less than a quarter of an hour.
Chandler called while Maekynzie was explaining why her math teacher had it out for her. He had an extra conditioning session and wanted to know if I minded him coming over tomorrow instead.
“I mind that you’re calling me during your workout,” I told him, watching Maekynzie erase the same problem for the third time.
“I’m on a water break.”
“Then drink water.”
“You sound like Coach.”
“Coach sounds smart.”
He laughed, promised to call later, and hung up. I missed him for a minute, then Maekynzie showed me the answer she’d gotten for a quadratic equation, and I told her she’d somehow invented a new kind of wrong. We spent the rest of the afternoon fixing it, with Bernard occasionally wandering over to make sure neither of us had snacks.
It wasn’t the kind of afternoon anybody would put in a scrapbook. I got to sit outside, argue about algebra, and watch my dog attempt to eat a leaf before Maekynzie stopped him.
Chandler showed up Friday with Dash, a bag of Takis, and a box he hid behind his back until Bernard got curious enough to sniff it.
“Dad found it in our hall closet,” he said, setting it on the kitchen table. “A thousand pieces. The lid’s been missing since I was eight, so we’re going in blind.”
The picture on the side of the box had faded to a smear of blue and something that might have been a boat. I rolled my wheelchair to the end of the table, and Chandler pulled out a chair for my leg and stacked two pillows on it without asking which ones I wanted. He’d picked the right ones.
I dumped the pieces out and started flipping them face up. “Edges first.”
“Why?”
I stopped flipping. “Because that’s how puzzles work.”
“That’s how your puzzles work.” He picked up a blue piece with a curl of white on it, turned it twice, and pressed it into another blue piece like he’d been looking for it his whole life. They clicked together. He held them up. “See?”
“That was luck.”
“That was skill.”
“Then do it again.”
He did. Not with the next piece, or the one after that, but within ten minutes he had a chunk of what was definitely a boat floating in the middle of the table, attached to nothing. I had three sides of a border and a growing sense of injustice.
“This is chaos,” I told him. “You’re building a boat with no ocean.”
“Boats usually come with ocean.” He reached across me for a piece near my elbow, and I covered it with my hand. He raised his eyebrows. “Is that an edge?”
“It’s mine.”
“That’s not how puzzles work either.”
Dash had settled under the table with his chin on Bernard’s back, which Bernard accepted as an honor. Pops wandered through for coffee, looked at the two halves of the table, and said, “So you two are fighting,” in the tone of a man who’d raised twins. He left with his mug before either of us could make him pick a side.
By the time the sun dropped behind the house, I had the whole frame done except for one corner. Chandler had a boat, a lighthouse, and most of a sky, none of it connected to anything I’d built.
“Loser buys ice cream at Sweet Peaks,” I said. “Whoever puts in the last piece wins.”
He pretended to think about it. “Okay.” He agreed too easily, and I should’ve known right then.
We worked in a quiet that wasn’t really quiet, because Chandler hummed when he concentrated. I’d known him my entire life and never caught it before. It was low and off-key and rotated through the same three soccer chants. When I asked whether he knew he was doing it, he looked genuinely surprised and claimed he wasn’t, then started again two minutes later. I liked it more than I planned to tell him.
Eventually his sky met my border, my border met his lighthouse, and the whole thing came together faster than either of us expected. Two holes were left: one in the corner of my frame and one in the middle of his sky. I scanned the table. Nothing.
“Where’s the last piece?” I asked.
Chandler held up both hands. Too empty. Too innocent.
“Chandler.”
“Hmm?”
I’d seen that face on Stetson my whole life. I grabbed the front of his hoodie, and the corner piece fell out of his sleeve and skittered across the table.
“You cheated.”
“I strategized.” He was laughing now and lunging for it, but I got there first. I pressed it into my corner and threw both arms up like I’d just put away match point.
“Sweet Peaks,” I said. “You’re buying. Large.”
“There’s still a hole in the sky.”
We both looked under the table. Bernard looked back, licked his lips, and thumped his tail against the floor.
Chandler laughed so hard he had to rest his forehead on the table. I laughed until my ribs hurt. Pops came back to see what had happened, and Bernard used the distraction to leave the room with tremendous dignity.
“He ate the sky,” Chandler said.
“He ate your sky.”
When he lifted his head, he was still grinning, and I leaned over and kissed him before he could argue. He tasted like Takis. He kissed me back like he’d been planning it since the boat.
The puzzle stayed on the kitchen table for two weeks, a lighthouse with a dog-shaped hole in its sky. Pops ate breakfast around it. Dad called it a fire hazard. Neither of them moved it.
Most evenings, Bernard settled by the front door a little before six fifteen. He still knew the sound of Chandler’s Jeep before anyone else did, and on the nights it pulled into the driveway, he greeted Chandler like he’d been gone for years. Other nights, Bernard waited a while, sighed dramatically, and came back to my room to complain. I understood the feeling.
Later in May, Maekynzie asked Emory out at the Vista Mall food court, right in front of the lemonade stand. Emory said yes so quickly he inhaled lemonade and spent the next minute coughing while she patted his back and laughed. She posted a video of the aftermath, which he claimed she’d edited to remove his dignity. Tinsley told him there hadn’t been any to edit.