Crying in her beer – or protein shake – was repugnant to her, but some days, she just couldn’t help it. Especially days when she was too weak to keep the bad feels at bay.

Thwack!

Kate flinched at the sound of something smacking against the glass doors. Andrew had pulled the blinds open so she could see the lake. Leaning forward on the bed, she couldn’t see anything on the porch that could have hit the door. But she did spot a tiny crack in the glass.

“I wonder if a bird tried to fly in here,” she said to Buttons. “I hope he’s okay.”

The porch was bathed in late morning sun. Andrew’s book was on the arm of the chair, its cover wagging in the breeze.

Swinging her legs off the bed, she said, “Hey, But-But, come help your momma.”

Buttons trotted to her side, nuzzling her leg. As soon as she stood up, he backed away, giving her space. It was amazing how he knew not to trip up his unsteady master.

Kate was several steps away from the door when her knee popped, the entire joint dislocating. Bright sparks exploded in her brain and she cried out, tipping, falling. Her spine burst into a great wall of flame. The blast of heat baked her core, flashing to her extremities.

Did the house just rumble, or was that her nerves jittering from the instant explosion of agony?

Buttons barked as she toppled to the floor. Her hip hit the hardwood with a dull thump, also dislocating. She was powerless to stop the tide of tears as she rocked on her good hip, blubbering incoherently.

Gritting her teeth, she willed the pain to leave her body, but it was no use. Until she could get her joints back in place, there was only white-hot, incoherent agony.

And anger.

The anger made her spine go nuclear, the burning intensifying until she worried that something far more horrible, perhaps irreversible, had occurred from the fall.

She tried to call for Andrew, but his name was mangled by the ragged scream that shredded her throat.

* * *

It was his first run since they’d settled into the cottage. Andrew had started out with his usual reckless abandon, but after nearly catching his feet among the countless raised roots and forest detritus, he’d settled into a much calmer, steadier pace. The last thing he wanted to do was break a leg out here in the middle of nowhere. He’d left the cottage behind twenty minutes ago. He knew they had neighbors, distant as they were, but somehow the path kept him well clear of the nearby homes. He’d heard that Mainers were private people, and this path was proof of it.

Forget worrying about breaking his leg. He just hoped he could find his way back. At one point, the path had veered to a three-pronged fork. He forgot which fork would take him back.