Ever and Liva make their way across first, holding onto the tree for balance. The boulders, all different sizes, don’t seem to be particularly stable, and there’s a small voice in the back of my mind—one that sounds remarkably like my therapist—telling me I should accept the offer for help.
After three years of PT and occupational therapy, five years of hospitals and arthritis specialists, I know exactly where my physical boundaries lie. I’m just incapable of admitting they exist.
And they keep closing in on me.
“Your mind is playing tricks on you,” my friend Damien would tell me. “Asking for help isn’t weakness. And limitations aren’t a weakness either. They just are.”
So what should I do with them, then? I’d ask him.
He’d ruffle my hair. “Accept them. And yourself. I know it’s difficult. I know the rest of the world teaches us differently. But you’re not lesser because you’re different. You don’t have to push yourself into an uncomfortable mold to be considered acceptable.”
But instead of speaking up, I wait for Carter and Maddy to cross too. They make their way gingerly, but as the rocks shift beneath them, small pebbles are sent flying over the edge, down a steep cliff. I focus and listen, but I don’t hear them fall. It’s an endless drop and a harsh silence.
Then it’s just me. I realize what a terrible decision it was to wait until last.
“Finn, are you sure?” Ever says from behind the rocks. “I’m worried about you.”
That settles my resolve, and I take the first step, climbing on one of the smaller boulders. It shifts and moves under my weight, but up is relatively easy. It’s going over that’s the problem.
Without sure footing, all I can do is place my crutches first. One step. Then the next. From this boulder to one higher up, a rock that looks a little more steady. Another step.
I lean hard on my crutches, because it’s the only way I can keep my balance, but that makes it hard to ignore how shaky they feel. How tangles of pain shoot up through my legs every time my feet slip, every time my ankles overextend.
I’m a fool.
On the other side, someone shouts something, but my world has narrowed down to these rocks now. Whatever they say, it’s not louder than the blood pumping in my ears.
I reach the highest point. The fallen tree hangs over the rocks, allowing the narrowest of gaps.
I’m going to have to fold myself through it, like the others did, and somehow catch myself on the other side. I put one crutch through, then lean on the rocks and follow with my head and shoulders, ignoring the pain. I turn sideways, one knee first, so I have a way to brace myself. Then pull the next crutch and try not to launch myself down, continuing to ignore the pain. I find a good place to put the crutches and turn all the way through.
When I tug my foot free from the branches, I nearly lose my balance, but I manage to catch myself and stabilize.
Another step—
And I feel the crutches slip out from underneath me. I don’t know if it’s the rocks that shift or if it’s my own lack of stability, but it’s as though time slows down, and I can feel myself fall, oh so slow.
Then my knee buckles. My ankle twists. With the elbow cuffs around my crutches, I can’t reach out to stop myself, because the impact would destroy my shoulders. I can only close my eyes and let myself—
Collide.
Strong arms come around me, bracing against my downward momentum. Then, other hands join the first person, holding us up and slowing us down to a stand. I hardly realize I’m not falling anymore, because the world is still twisting around me, and I may have messed up my hip again.
“Finn.” Ever’s voice comes harsh and angry like punches. “You fool of a Took. Ask for help when you need it.”
Firmly on the ground, I open my eyes. There are manicured nails around my arms—with the symbol of Gonfalon, a stylized, golden G, delicately painted on each one. I nearly flinch. “Don’t—” Out of all my friends leaping up to help me, why was it Liva who succeeded? Pain burns in my ankle, but my anger burns hotter.
Liva lets go off me and steps back. Ever is directly behind her, glaring at me. Carter, frowning. Maddy, pale with worry.
I’m reeling with fear and fury and hurt, and it’s so much, so overwhelmingly much, I don’t know how to deal with it but to sink down and sit and ground myself. Breathe until I get my equilibrium back and my hands don’t tremble with rage anymore. Wait until the anger—at myself, at Liva, at this cursed mountain—withdraws into the usual shadows.
“I thought you were smarter than that.” Ever hands me a bottle of water out of their backpack. Underneath their words are others: I thought you were okay with this weekend.
“I am.” For them, I am. Or I thought I could be, at least.
As I catch my breath, I glance around at the group. We’re a collection of individuals, all of us broken, all of us fragile. But the thing that scares me most isn’t that I might break us apart further.
It’s that I want to.
Two
Maddy
Finn radiates pain. He’s so tense, it hurts to look at him. I wonder if he realizes it. In my experience, most people—most neurotypical people—don’t. Even if they’ll talk about nonverbal language and how important it is, they don’t realize how unconscious most reactions are and how much they’re sharing. But I do. You teach yourself how to read body language when winning a game—or navigating life—depends on it.
With Finn, his tension is in the tight set of his jaw. The way his shoulders crawl up to his ears. The fingers that twist around his crutches so hard, they’ve gone almost as white as his hair. The shadows around his eyes.
