I sat at the picnic table, rubbing my left shoulder. The physical therapy was brutal. I had about seventy percent mobility back, but on damp days, the ache from Mercer’s bullet throbbed like a heartbeat.
Mercer wasn’t here today, but he had called. He was medically retired, living in Montana with Maya. We spoke once a month. The forgiveness was slow, complicated, but it was there. We had both paid the price of love.
The wooden gate at the side of the house clicked open.
The yard went quiet.
Lucas walked in.
He looked healthier. The gaunt, haunted look of captivity had faded, replaced by a quiet stillness. He held a six-pack of craft beer and a slightly crumpled bouquet of sunflowers.
He walked over to the table and set them down in front of me.
“I heard there were burgers,” he said, offering a small, tentative smile.
