By quarter to twelve, the ice starts to
clear, the heats over for the day and the skaters heading home.
Dante glances up into the stands at the empty landing and wonders
where Ryan is. Therapy’s only an hour, right? And he said he’d come
back, he said he’d try, but maybe it was too much for him,
maybe he’s worn out and doesn’t feel up to returning to the rink
today. How would Dante know?
He could call the house, see if Ryan’s
there. Just tell him he understands if he can’t make it out again,
he knows how debilitating therapy can be. When he cut his arm, the
therapist wanted him to work the muscles by writing his name, over
and over and over, until he was sure that the stitches holding his
skin closed would pop. Simply holding the pen was excruciating. If
Ryan’s legs feel like
