Kir cuts the engine. The silence is enormous. He looks at me. I look at the house.
“I can’t feel my legs,” I tell him.
“They’re still there, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I laugh, or try to. My hand is on the door handle but I’m not pulling it.
Kir reaches over and covers my hand with his. “I’ll be right here,” he promises. “Always.”
I nod and he helps me pull the handle. The door swings open and the night air rushes in, warm and fragrant and gentle as a mother’s kiss.
The walkway is six concrete squares from the curb to the porch steps. I count them as I go. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. A handful of wooden steps up. I stop in front of the door, fist raised, knuckles an inch from the painted wood.
Behind me, the car is dark and still. Kir is in there. Watching. I know I
