“Good lungs.”
“Very good lungs.”
A pause.
Then Emily said, “I wanted to ask if I could visit this week. Only if you want.”
Miles looked at Denise, who pretended to read a folder.
“You bringing the baby?”
“If you want.”
He shrugged, then remembered she could not see him.
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Okay.”
Another pause.
“Emily?”
“Yes?”
“Did the news find out?”
“They know something happened, but we haven’t given them your name.”
“Don’t.”
“We won’t.”
He gripped the phone tighter.
“I don’t want people looking at me like I’m a sad commercial.”
Emily went quiet.
When she spoke again, her voice was careful.
“I understand.”
Miles was not sure she did.
But she was trying.
That counted.
The next weeks did not become magic.
That is the part people like to skip.
They want the rescue, the hug, the clean ending.
They want the boy under the bridge to walk into a warm room and become grateful in a way that makes everyone comfortable.
Miles was grateful.
He was also angry.
He woke up some nights gasping because he thought the cart was gone.
He snapped at Robert when asked about school.
He hid food until Denise found a drawer full of crackers, apples, and peanut butter packets.
He refused new shoes for nine days because the old ones had carried him through the night he saved Emily.
He would not let anyone wash his blanket.
Not at first.
When Emily visited, he was polite but stiff.
She came without press.
Always.
Sometimes with the baby.
Sometimes with Nathan.
Sometimes alone.
She brought books instead of gifts.
A paperback about a boy who builds a boat.
A book of poems with plain words.
A notebook with no logo on the cover.
Miles accepted the books.
He did not tell her he read them all.
Nathan was harder.
