Charlie had volunteered to walk them until he found someone, and he didn’t want to burden his brother any longer than he had to. Charlie had the hardware store to run, and he spent long hours there and on construction sites.
Jack flicked on the television. He’d never watched much TV before the Davis debacle. The worlds he dreamt up in his head and the world outside his door had always been preferable to any he’d found on the screen. But over the past eight months he’d learned the numbing power of flickering lights and voices that required no response.
Wanting something mindless and distracting, Jack selected Secaucus Psychic. Maybe seeing people who’d lost family members to actual death would put a broken leg in perspective.
Hell, who was he kidding. He didn’t want perspective. He wanted to sink into the couch and into his bad mood and sulk for just a little longer.
He’d banned Bernard from the couch because, though fully grown, the St. Bernard behaved like a puppy, flopping on top of Jack despite weighing nearly as much as him, and with a leg held together with pins and casting, and ribs and head aching, Jack didn’t think he could take a careless flop. So instead, Bernard had piled himself on the floor in front of the couch, as close to Jack as he could get, and lolled his massive head back every few minutes to check if he was allowed on the couch yet.
Pirate curled delicately in the crook of his elbow, though, and he stroked her back, making her rumble.
An unfamiliar ding from his pocket startled both Jack and Pirate. It was the notification sound for PetShare. Jack thumbed the app open and saw that he’d matched. Someone whose username was SimpleSimon and lived 6.78 miles away from him had checked the I’d love to! option next to Jack’s description of what he was looking for.
“I’ll be damned,” Jack said to the animals. “Either this dude is a saint or he’s got no life at all.”
Pirate yawned and stretched out a paw to lazily dig her claws into his shoulder.
“Fine, jeez, I know. I don’t have one either,” Jack grumbled, and resentfully clicked Accept.
* * *
It was a horrible night. One of Jack’s worst.
Because of his concussion, he couldn’t take a strong enough painkiller to touch the ache in his ribs and the screaming in his leg. He tossed and turned, and finally gave up on sleep, searching the darkness for the familiar reflective eyes watching him. After a moment, he lurched upright. The sudden movement shot pain through his head and chest and leg and left him gasping and nauseated, clutching the edge of the mattress until the worst of it passed.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Finally, having learned his lesson, Jack gingerly pushed himself off the bed and shoved the crutches under his arms. The pull of the muscles across his chest as he used his arms to propel him forward left his ribs in agony. By the time he got to the bathroom, usually just ten quick steps away, he was sweating and swearing, teeth clenched hard.
Then, the drama of lowering his pants.
“Can’t even take a damn piss without fucking something up,” Jack muttered. At least, that’s what he’d intended to mutter before the pain and exhaustion stole the luxury of indulging in self-deprecating commentary.
Humbled and infuriated in equal measure, Jack gave up on sleep entirely. Coffee. That’s what he needed. Coffee was the opposite of sleep. Coffee was a choice he could make when apparently he couldn’t control a single other goddamn thing in his pathetic, broken life.
The trip to the kitchen was suddenly rife with unexpected hazards. A squeaky dog toy sent him lurching to one side, groaning at his wrenched ribs and the shock of pain that shot through his leg. When he could move again, his crutch clipped the edge of a pile of unopened mail that had sat for weeks, which cascaded across the floorboards like a croupier’s expert spread of cards.
Naturally, that got the attention of several animals and Jack stood very still while the envelopes were swatted at, swept by tails, and finally, in the case of the largest envelope, flopped upon by Pickles, the smallest of his cats.
Mayonnaise, a sweet white cat with one green eye missing slunk up to him on the counter and butted her little head against his arm.
“Hi,” he said, and kissed her fuzzy head. She gave him a happy chirp, then darted out the window cat door above the sink.
Everything took four times as long as usual and required ten times the energy. The crutches dug into his underarms with every touch, bruising and chafing the skin there and catching on his armpit hair. His leg hurt horribly and the longer he stayed upright the worse it ached as the blood rushed downward. His head throbbed and throbbed and throbbed.
Though he’d gotten up while it was still dark, the sun had risen during the rigamarole of making coffee and eggs. Jack scarfed the eggs directly from the pan, afraid if he tried to sit down at the kitchen table he wouldn’t be able to get back up.
He realized too late that he couldn’t bend down to put food and water in the animals’ bowls and began a messy process of attempting it from his full height.
His first try slopped water all over the floor. Swearing, he dropped towels over the spills, moving them with the tip of his crutch to soak up the water. Next came the dog food, and Jack practically cheered when most of it went in the bowls.
The cat food, smaller, skidded everywhere, and Pirate and Pickles looked up at him for a moment as if offended. Then they had great fun chasing the food all over the floor. When the dogs joined the chase it resulted in the knocking over of bowls of water, the soaking of food, the scarfing of said food by the dogs and a counter full of hissing cats.
Jack opened a tin of tuna and let them at it, staring at his ravaged kitchen. It looked like the forest floor on a muddy day and it stank of wet dog food. The prospect of trying to clean it up left him short of breath and exhausted.
Bernard, always one to lurk until the end of mealtimes, hoping to scarf a stray mouthful, shoved his face in the mess.
“Good dog,” Jack said. He’d meant to say it wryly, but it came out with relieved sincerity.
Louis, the least social of his cats—he only liked Puddles—poked his gray and black head out of the bedroom, sniffed the air, and decided that whatever he smelled didn’t portend well. He eschewed dinner with a flick of his tail and retreated back inside the bedroom. Jack made a mental note to leave a bowl out for him later.
Just as Jack sank onto the couch, the dogs started shuffling to the front door the way they only did on the rare occasions when someone was approaching. Jack groaned. He hauled himself back up and pretended not to hear his own pathetic whimper as he made his way to the door.
“Back up, come on,” Jack wheezed at the animals. Then, in a whisper, “Be extremely cute so this guy likes you.” Then he yanked the door open.
There, with one hand half-raised to knock, stood a man made of contrasts.