He came out in a thin yellow towel wrapped around his waist. “I know you’re trying,” he said. “I know it’s the only thing you can do, but you shouldn’t have to. I want normal back. I know you want it back too.”

“I want you. That’s it. As-is.”

He grinned. “Limited warranty?”

I pulled back the cover and sheets. “Come to bed.”

He dropped the towel and crawled in next to me, wrapping his arms around my thighs and hugging me to him as he rested his head in my lap. “I’m sorry I’m not handling this well.”

“How are you supposed to handle it? Are there rules I don’t know about?”

He squeezed me tighter. “I just don’t want to hurt you, Naomi.”

“Then don’t,” I said, putting away the tablet. I ran my fingers through his wet hair, watching him relax.

I’d seen the behavior before with wounded soldiers. Adjustment sucked ass. Transition wasn’t easy. But if I could just get Zeke to hang in there with me, we could make it through together. He was going through the stages of grief, but his frustrations grew with each passing day—sometimes with each passing hour.

The next morning, Zeke set out to meet his foster mom in Denver. Jenn planned a long layover before her connecting flight to see one of Zeke’s pregnant sisters. They planned to discuss his health, so I opted to stay behind. I’d meet her another time—a better time.

I went for a run, mowed the lawn, cleaned the house then took a shower before settling on the couch to do more research. It was a typical Saturday, except I knew when Zeke returned, he’d likely be upset and cranky.

I wasn’t wrong.

At four o’clock, he slammed the door, and I looked up at him with a frown.

“Really?” I asked.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to close it that hard.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Fine. Chatty. Overly curious. She says the Mayo Clinic has an entire department devoted to HCM.”

“Hmmm,” I chirped.

“I know, I know, you’ve told me a dozen times.”

“If you’ll listen to your mom, whatever. Can we apply now?”

He frowned, going into the kitchen. “I’ll think about it.” He opened the cabinet, then the freezer, then the sink faucet turned on. Zeke walked out with two cups of ice water in his hand, giving one to me.

“Thank you,” I said, taking a sip. “What’s to think about? It’s cutting edge treatment.”

“I’m telling you the same thing I told Jenn: I don’t want treatment—I want a cure.”

I sighed. “I know. It’s so frustrating, but they’re not there yet.”

“I’ll go when they are,” he said, standing and disappearing into the bedroom.