That's the one. His face brightened. Well, look at you. Danny immediately turned toward the coffee urn. Don't start.
I'm serious. I know. That's why I'm telling you not to start. Walter chuckled, but when he stood to return his tray, his expression tightened. Danny noticed immediately.
Your knee? It's fine. That's not what your face said. Since when does my face talk? Since you became a terrible liar.
Walter tried another step and winced. Danny took the tray from him. Sit. I'm not helpless. I didn't say you were.
I can carry my own plate. And I can carry it faster. That settled it. A few minutes later, Danny knelt beside his chair with the knee brace resting across her palm. The strap had twisted.
That's why it's pinching. Walter watched as she adjusted it. You charged by the hour? Absolutely. How much?
One cup of coffee. I already drank two. Then you're paid up. She repositioned the brace and showed him how to tighten the lower strap without restricting circulation. Try it.
Walter stood carefully. This time his expression changed. Better. Good. He took two steps.
Then three. You ought to do this for a living. That's the plan. Walter looked toward the acceptance letter folder sticking from her messenger bag. Hawthorne know what they're getting?
Danny's smile became smaller. They know my application. That's not what I asked. Before she could answer, another volunteer called for help carrying a box from the pantry. Danny rose immediately.
As she bent for the box, her keys slipped partly from her pocket. The bronze medallion swung free. Walter saw it. He reached toward it, but didn't touch. What's that?
Danny straightened. The metal turned once in the warm kitchen light. Walter caught only a few characters. N.I.C. And something beneath it.
Danny closed her hand around the metal and tucked it away. Old souvenir. From what? A different life. Something in her voice stopped him from asking again.
Danny carried the box toward the pantry. She had become good at that. Closing doors gently enough that people didn't realize they had been closed. There had been a time when she hadn't needed to. Before hospital rooms.
Before bills piled on the kitchen counter. Before her father Leon's illness turned calendars into appointment schedules and savings into numbers that disappeared faster every month. Leon Carter had been 54 when he died. Even near the end, when illness had taken much of his strength, he had worried more about Angela and Danny than himself. Danny remembered sitting beside him as an adult woman.
Her hands still bruised from training while he examined her knuckles. You win? Yes. That why you're smiling? I'm not smiling.
You are inside. He had always known. After he was gone, Danny stopped competing. No announcement. No farewell tour.