Chandler saw the pass before I could hide it.
The elevator took forty-one seconds to come. I counted every one with the pass pinched between two fingers, turning the orange card until its corners dug into my skin.
A real pass, bright orange and impossible to hide. Proof I couldn’t climb stairs like everyone else.
The elevator was at the end of Hall A, beside the main stairwell. Somebody had propped the stairwell door open. Backpacks, tumblers, a speaker playing something with too much bass. And Chandler, halfway up the stairs, one hand on the rail, looking at me.
His eyes went to the orange pass, dropped to my sneakers, then back to the stairs I was skipping. Heat climbed my neck all the way to the gold studs in my ears.
Chandler didn’t write people up. He didn’t tell on anybody. He just remembered.
The doors dinged open, and I stepped inside before either of us could do anything about it. In the polished metal wall, my reflection looked pale and wide-eyed above my ponytail. I leaned my shoulder against it and let my left leg go loose for exactly one floor.
Nurse Haviland had written the pass on Tuesday morning. That afternoon, Dr. Kerr had pressed her thumbs along my thigh while Dad and Pops stood against the wall of the exam room. I’d answered her questions with half-truths. She’d sent me down the hall for an X-ray anyway, then come back and said she wanted a closer look with an MRI. The imaging center couldn’t schedule it until our insurance approved it, and nobody could say how long that would take. Until then, I was supposed to take it easy.
What I hadn’t told any of them was that the pain had started in August. Or that I’d barely slept since the match. Or that sometimes my leg felt like it might fold beneath me.
This morning, Nurse Haviland had extended the pass through Thursday after Pops called to confirm. She’d asked whether I’d gotten my leg looked at. I’d said yes, an MRI as soon as insurance approved it, and left out what happened every time I tried the stairs.
Before school, I’d hung Chandler’s forest-green jacket, the one with the corduroy collar, on the hook inside his locker. His combination hadn’t changed since sixth grade. I’d folded the collar down flat and walked away before anybody saw me standing there.
The doors opened on the second floor, where the English and Math wings met. I straightened and walked out like I’d never needed the elevator.
That night, the group chat didn’t sleep. It was called Hall A Menaces because Stetson had named it in eighth grade and nobody could figure out how to change it without him noticing. By ten, it had two hundred new messages.
I read them lying flat on the honey oak floor of my bedroom, because the floor was the only surface that didn’t make my thigh ache worse. Above me, the fairy lights threw soft yellow across the teal walls.
Maekynzie: emory said my song was fine
Maekynzie: that’s all i got
Maekynzie: i said it was good too
Maekynzie: after i asked
Stetson: noelle what are u doing tmrw after practice
Noelle: why??
Stetson: no reason
Stetson: ok it’s a small reason
Stetson: u coming to the fall bonfire friday?
Noelle: probably. why?
Stetson: just checking
Tinsley: chandler i can see u typing and i want u to stop
Stetson: @sloane u alive?? ur never this quiet
Stetson had noticed. He could be halfway through asking out the love of his life and still catch my silence in two hundred messages.
Me: alive. go to bed.
Stetson: u go to bed
At 11:30, I turned off the fairy lights. At 1:15, the pain woke me. It was different at night. During the day, it hummed. At night, it dug into the center of the bone like a thumb pressing from the inside.
I’d started setting an alarm for 2:00 a.m., labeled water, because I kept waking up hurting anyway. Sometimes I took the over-the-counter pain medicine Dad kept in the bathroom cabinet. Sometimes I just waited for the ache to ease enough to sleep.
Tonight, waiting wasn’t working. I reached under my bed, past a lost sock and an old knee brace, and found the soft cooler bag I’d tucked there on Sunday. After dinner, I’d swapped in a fresh ice pack from the freezer. It had gone only a little cool by now, but I pressed it against the front of my thigh through my pajama shorts anyway.
Across the room, Bernard lifted his head from his rug. The tag on his collar clicked against his chest as he stood.
“You’re off duty,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
He cocked his head at me, ears up, and ignored me completely. He padded over, lay against my good side, and let out a long, dramatic sigh.
Coach Mathieson had moved Thursday’s practice up to right after school so JV could have Gym A for their match. By three-thirty, it was all squeaking shoes and his voice bouncing off the rafters.
“Rotate!” Coach barked. “Roxie, you’re in one! Deshazo, front row! Let’s go, ladies, I want to see it!”
Approach drills. Four steps, jump, swing, land, back of the line. Twenty minutes in, I’d been cheating for nineteen: shortening my approach, taking off early, landing on my right foot and letting my left come along for the ride. Roxie set me, and on the landing my left knee dipped. I turned it into a jog back to the line.
“Deshazo!”
Coach stood beside the net with his clipboard under one arm. It wasn’t his usual pick-up-the-pace look. “Come here a minute.”
I walked over, concentrating on being somebody whose leg worked perfectly well. Behind me, the drill kept going.
“You’re landing on your right foot. Is that left leg still hurting?”
“It’s nothing. My left leg’s just sore.” I glanced back at the line. “I probably landed funny last week. I’ll ice it tonight.”
“You said you’d ice it last week, too. I just watched you land on one leg.” He lowered his clipboard. “How long has it been like this?”
“A few days,” I said, because since August was an answer that ended with my dads getting a phone call. “I can just pass for the rest of practice. I won’t jump.”
“You’re done today.” He looked at the court, then back at me. “I need you to get it checked. You’ll need clearance before you practice again. Got it?”
I nodded. The words before you practice again sank somewhere unpleasant in my stomach. He squeezed my shoulder, called the next rotation, and I headed for the bench, keeping my face neutral while Courtney glanced over from the court. For the rest of practice, I watched and pretended I wasn’t counting minutes.
Soccer had played Wednesday night, so today was only a short recovery session. Stetson had promised to be leaning on his Lexus by the time I got outside, scrolling his phone and pretending he hadn’t been waiting.
At 4:42, I had my joggers on over my spandex and my bag on my shoulder. I’d double-knotted the drawstring. They’d been loose all week.
His parking spot was empty. My phone buzzed.
Stetson: omg sloane i’m so sorry dad needed me to run an errand and i completely forgot to tell u chandler’s still there ask him!!!
Stetson: ur the best twin
I stood in the middle of the lot doing math. Three miles home, downhill for the first mile, then flat, then uphill into the cul-de-sac. On a normal day, I’d have called it a warmup.
Keys jingled behind me. Chandler was leaning against his Jeep, keys hooked on one finger, in practice shorts and a Bighorns soccer hoodie, his hair still damp from the locker room. His brown canvas jacket was tossed across the back seat.
“Stetson texted me,” Chandler said, opening the passenger door. “You need a ride?”
“Apparently.” I shifted my bag onto my other shoulder and walked over.
The Jeep sat high. You stepped on the running board, grabbed the handle above the door, and swung up. I’d done it a thousand times without thinking.
I put my left foot on the running board and pushed. My leg shook instead of lifting me, and I hung from the handle with my face inches from the door frame.
Then I switched feet, hauled myself up with my right leg and both arms, and dropped into the seat so hard the whole Jeep rocked. I clicked my seatbelt and stared through the windshield.
Chandler walked around to the driver’s side and sat with both hands on the wheel before starting the engine.
“You’re taking the long way,” I said when he turned left out of the lot instead of right.
“We’re getting Bernard first.”
“Why?” I turned toward him.
“So I can practice the leash thing.” He glanced at me. “Miss Davison said I need to get that down before I try it with Dash.”
“Bernard’s just gonna jump on you.”
“Probably.” He checked the mirror before changing lanes. “I still need to practice.”
Pops’ Silverado was gone from the driveway, probably a grocery run, which meant nobody saw how long it took me to get back outside with Bernard and his leash. The second I opened the front door, he came barreling out, collar jingling, and hopped into the Jeep’s back seat like he’d won a prize. He curled up on Chandler’s jacket.
Chandler drove to Vista Ridge Park, skipped the shady spots under the cottonwoods where everybody parked, and pulled into the one right next to the paved path. Full sun, thirty feet from the trail instead of two hundred.
He didn’t explain. He just turned off the engine. “Okay,” he said. “Drills.”
The sun hung low and gold through the trees, throwing long shadows across the soccer fields near the entrance. The air smelled like water, fallen leaves, and somebody’s barbecue on the other side of the ridge.
The plan was simple. I’d hold Bernard’s leash. Chandler would approach from the side without staring or reaching for him. Then I’d hand over the leash, and Bernard would walk ten feet with Chandler. It wouldn’t tell us how Dashiell would react, but Chandler could practice the timing.
Bernard had his own plan. Chandler approached, and Bernard lost his mind with joy. He flashed that ridiculous, open-mouthed Sammy grin, leaped straight up, and tried to climb into Chandler’s arms, all forty-eight pounds of him. He’d been our fifteenth birthday present, a year ago this month, and he still hadn’t figured out he wasn’t a lap dog.
“Bernard, down.” Chandler turned his face away from the tongue heading for his mouth.
“I told you.” I shortened the leash enough to give him some room.
“Yeah, thanks.” Chandler wiped his cheek on his sleeve while Bernard tried to lick his hand instead.
By the third try, Bernard managed to sit, wiggling, while Chandler approached. Bernard accepted the leash handoff, walked ten feet, then spun around, sprinted back to me, and sat on my foot.
“Dash might come back to me, too,” I said. “Just probably slower.”
“What do you do then?”
“You wait. Let him come back, then try again.” I loosened my grip on the leash while Bernard settled against my leg.
“All right,” Chandler said. “Again?”
Then we walked the trail, or Bernard walked it and we followed. He headed for the creek, towing Chandler at a pace that would’ve been fine a month ago.
I made it maybe twenty feet before my thigh started protesting. Every step sent a jolt up from my heel, and I was breathing too hard for a trail I used to jog without thinking.
Chandler glanced back. I breathed through my nose and kept my face blank. He shortened Bernard’s leash beside a fence post. “Hang on. He wants to smell something.”
Bernard shoved his nose into the grass around the post.
“He’s gonna be there a while.” I kept walking until I caught up with them.
When Bernard finally moved on, Chandler fell into step beside me, matching my pace without looking at my leg. For one step, I let my shoulder drift toward his arm. Then I corrected.
The creek ran low over flat brown rocks, and beside it stood a wooden bench under a cottonwood, carved all over with initials. Somebody named KR had loved somebody named MT, at least for one summer.
I sat. The wood was rough and splintered and solid under my palms. Chandler sat beside me. Bernard flopped at our feet, belly up, one ear inside out, tail thumping the dirt.
I told myself we’d stay long enough for me to catch my breath. Somehow, we stayed longer. We talked about school. About Mr. Grzywacz, and whether he’d ever smiled, and if so, under what circumstances. About Dashiell, and how he’d sniffed Chandler’s sneaker on Saturday before retreating to me.
Chandler picked up a pinecone from beside the bench and rolled it between his palms while Bernard worked his way around the same clump of weeds for the third time.
“Are we walking him, or are we just sitting here?” Chandler asked.
“He likes it here. Leave him alone.”
I stretched my left leg out in front of me, hoping Chandler would keep his eyes on the dog.
He leaned back against the bench, and his shoulder brushed mine. Neither of us moved away. The bench was small. That was the only reason I suddenly couldn’t remember what to do with my hands.
I folded my hands in my lap. At my feet, Bernard had finally given up on the weeds and stretched out in the dirt.
The creek rushed over the rocks. Cottonwood leaves flashed gold whenever the wind moved through them. Bernard snored.
Chandler’s phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and set it on his thigh. It buzzed again a few minutes later, and he didn’t pick it up.
It was almost six when he stopped rolling the pinecone. The phone lit up again, and this time the word Work showed on the screen before he turned it facedown.
He was quiet for a while. I thought it was the good kind of quiet. Then he spoke, low and careful.
“Stetson said Dr. Kerr wants an MRI.”
I kept my eyes on the creek. The neck of his hoodie had slipped to one side, showing the dark birthmark above his collarbone.
“Stetson talks too much.”
“Sloane.” He turned toward me. “You’ve been hurting since at least last Thursday.”
“It’s a bone bruise.”
“You said that last week.”
“It’s still a bone bruise.”
“You’re taking the elevator now.” He glanced at my leg. “And you could barely get into the Jeep.”
He stopped, then tried again.
“Whenever it is, let me come. I can sit in the waiting room.”
I almost said yes. I pictured his Jeep in a parking lot. Him in a waiting room chair, pretending to read an old Sports Illustrated. Somebody in scrubs telling me it was a pulled muscle, or a stress fracture, six weeks off. Something with a name and an end date.
Then I pictured the other possibility, the one I never let myself think about for more than a second. The one that might explain why my thigh hurt in one exact spot, why I’d lost four pounds without trying, why I kept waking up in the middle of the night.
If he came, he’d be sitting right there when somebody said what it was.
I was on my feet before I decided to be. Pain shot through my leg, and Bernard scrambled upright.
“It’s my leg,” I said. “I’m dealing with it. Can you just stop?”
Chandler’s fingers tightened around the pinecone. He looked up, his mouth parting like he’d expected me to take the words back. I didn’t.
He set the pinecone on the bench and stood. “Okay.” He said it so gently I almost wished he’d argued.
Chandler drove me home without talking. The only sounds in the Jeep were Bernard panting happily in the back and the tick of the turn signal when we pulled into the cul-de-sac.
He parked in front of my house, got out, and came around to open my door. Then he stepped back and looked at the mailbox while I climbed down.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, keeping one hand on the open door.
“Yep.” He stepped back so I could shut it.
He let Bernard out, and Bernard trotted up the driveway to the front door. Chandler got back into the Jeep and pulled out of the cul-de-sac faster than he usually drove, his taillights turning toward downtown instead of Uncle Jake’s.
I stood on the driveway and watched the empty street. He was already late for work.
Inside, the house smelled like garlic and onions. I followed Bernard down the hall to the kitchen, where Pops stood at the stove with his sleeves rolled up, stirring a skillet. Dad stood at the island in his work shirt, tie already off, sorting a stack of mail beside his briefcase. He must have walked in right before me.
From upstairs came the muffled sound of Stetson yelling at his video game.
“Sunshine! Dinner in twenty.” Pops glanced over his shoulder. “Was that Chandler?”
“Yep.”
“Everything okay?”
“Stetson forgot he was supposed to pick me up.”
Pops frowned at the ceiling. “He’s been home for half an hour. He told me Chandler was bringing you.”
“That one’s on me,” Dad said, still sorting the mail. “I sent him for my dry cleaning.”
“Chandler brought me. After Stetson remembered I existed.” I adjusted my bag on my shoulder.
From upstairs, Stetson shouted something about somebody cheating.
“Sounds like he’s busy.”
Pops shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched. I started for the hall, keeping my weight on my right leg.
“How’d practice go?” he asked.
“Fine.” I reached for the doorframe.
“Were you playing on that leg?”
I stopped. They both knew it hurt. Neither of them knew Coach had pulled me from drills.
“Not the whole time.” I kept my hand on the doorframe.
“Sloane.” His voice lost its teasing edge. “We talked about this. Did you tell Coach it was hurting?”
“I’m not jumping again until I get cleared.” I looked down at my sneakers.
Dad set the mail down. “Whose decision was that?”
I should have remembered who I was talking to. “Coach’s.”
Pops looked at my hand braced against the doorframe. Dad didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
“Come sit down. I’m calling Dr. Kerr’s office first thing tomorrow.”
“In a minute. I need to change.”
He didn’t smile. “A minute, Sloane.”
I nodded and headed down the hall before he could see how carefully I had to take the first step.
In my room, I lay down on the floor. Bernard padded over and rested his chin on my ankle.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed against the floorboards.
Chandler: Fall Bonfire is Friday. I’ll drive. You don’t have to talk to me.
I read it three times. I didn’t type anything.