“Oh, thank God,” he said, and he meant it. He couldn’t stop thinking about that dog. “Can I speak to her?”

“When she’s ready,” Morgan said. “She’s still very tired. And there may be complications. Brain damage. We don’t know yet.”

“Morgan, I’m so sorry.”

“Me too, Scott,” she replied. “For everything. And… and thank you for sharing Natalie’s note with me.”

He’d given it to her the day before, when they’d met at the hospital; things were never great between Morgan, Gary and Scott, but they were civil. And they all had a common goal in mind: for Lauren to wake up, for her to be okay.

“I don’t think I said thanks,” Morgan said.

“Did it help?”

She sighed. “I hope it helped her. Thinking of me. But I’ve got to focus on Lauren now.”

They said goodbye, and Scott wondered if he should tell Morgan the truth. But then, it wasn’t the truth; it was his experience with her.

Scott grinned; he was getting messed up. And right then, he paused, really feeling the grin.

The afternoon sun on his face. He closed his eyes and saw the dog.

I don’t have to be who you want me to be, he thought, in his voice, and he was talking to Natalie. I can be my own man. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be with you anymore.

The next day, he decided to do something about the mess. He was limited to how much he could do, considering his busted ankle and his crutches. But he’d try.

Listening to Christian music – he’d laughed at himself as he selected the playlist, but he selected it anyway – he did his best. He folded cardboard boxes and packed them for recycling as he leaned against the counter. He rubbed down the surfaces; he collected all the dishes and put them in the washer.

Ah, he needed dishwasher tabs.

He walked awkwardly to the undercounter cupboard where they kept all their bits and bobs: carrier bags and dishwasher tablets and cleaning supplies of every kind. This had been Casey’s domain while they were married; he still caught himself thinking of her sometimes, smiling at him across the kitchen.

Leaning down, he winced, reaching to the back of the cupboard; he couldn’t find the bloody things…

His hand brushed something. It felt like paper. And there was duct tape.

Just like with the notebook.

Scott felt around, to the end of the tape, pulled softly; he felt the paper coming away.

He was breathing hard.

Taking the note out, he read it; he read it all several times, then he began to laugh. So hard his chest hurt. So hard he crumpled in a ball on the kitchen floor, lying on his side, trembling with the laughter; tears streamed sideways down his face and his ankle cast bumped against the floor, and he kept on.

All for her fucking writing class, he thought, and laughed even harder. Jesus bloody Christ.