I want to kiss her for that, but instead I squeeze her hand before knocking on Marta’s front door.

Marta must have been waiting for me, because she opens the door quickly. “Thank you for coming.” She nods at Teagan. “And you brought the pretty nurse. Well done.”

I laugh. “She wanted to come. Our little charmer won her heart.”

Marta grunts softly and pulls the door wide. “Of course he did.”

As we step into Marta’s house, I’m instantly hit by the familiar scent of chicken soup and pine-scented cleaner. I’ve visited regularly since Max died, so Marta’s home is as comforting to me as my own. I wish Isaiah felt the same.

“It’s my fault he’s in this mood,” she says, leading the way into her kitchen, where there is indeed a pot of soup bubbling on the stove. “He overheard me on the phone with my brother talking about medical bills, and it upset him. He doesn’t need to worry about money. That’s my concern.”

“I can help. With the bills, I mean.” My throat goes tight. If only Max were still here . . .

She waves me off. “You coming over here is help enough. He’s in his bedroom. Go see if you can talk him into eating something. He’s stubborn as a mule.”

“I’ll wait out here with Marta,” Teagan says. “Let you two talk for a minute first.”

I nod and squeeze her hand one last time before heading to Isaiah’s bedroom at the back of the house. As I pad toward his door across the green shag carpet, I can hear the muffled beat of his house music.

I knock, and when he doesn’t answer, I push inside.

Isaiah’s propped up on a pile of pillows, his casted leg straight before him, his other bent at the knee and his eyes directed at the ceiling. “What do you want?”

“I thought you’d like to go on a run with me. Come on. Five miles. Let’s go.”

He tears his gaze off the ceiling long enough to scowl at me. “You’re not funny.”

I sigh and close the door behind me. In some ways, the room is a stereotypical teenager’s hovel with piles of clothes—some folded, some crumpled—littering the floor, but in other ways it’s the room of a boy who’s tried to fit his old life into a space where it can’t. After his dad died, they had to sell his house. Marta couldn’t handle the mortgage or the upkeep on her own. When Isaiah moved in here, he brought a couch, chair, Xbox, and TV from his old basement and crammed it all into the bedroom, leaving barely enough room to walk between one piece of furniture and the next.

I take a seat on the couch and rest my elbows on my knees. “How’s the pain?”

“It’s pain. Can it be good?”

“It can be better if you take your meds.” When he ignores that, I sigh. “You haven’t been replying to my texts.”