I flick on the kitchen light and Tyke comes in behind me. He’s limping and I know his legs are hurting, so I instantly point to the tiny sofa that was donated by Mack and Jaylah. “Sit, Tyke. Your legs look like they’re hurting.”

He gives me a pained expression and sits on the couch, sighing with relief. “Yeah, you could say that.”

I open the fridge and get him a beer—I always keep them for him—and then I get myself a soda. I walk over and sit down beside him, handing him the cool bottle. I’m used to spending time with Tyke after my shift, even though most don’t end until nearly midnight. It doesn’t seem to bother him, and so it doesn’t bother me, either. “How’re you going with all the recovery exercises?”

He grunts, taking a mouthful of his beer. When he’s swallowed it, he turns to me. “Those are what is causing so much fuckin’ grief. They hurt more than they help, I’m sure of it.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s probably just a part of the recovery.”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “Probably.”

“Do you want some, ah, ice or something?”

He gives me a stunning half-smile. “No, darlin’, I’m fine.”

I nod, looking down at my lap. “I should shower. It’s really late.”

When he doesn’t answer, I look back up and his eyes are studying my face. “How’re things really going, Pip?”

“Fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

I don’t honestly know how things are for me. I have people around me that love me, a job, a home, food in my belly, yet I’m struggling to feel like I belong in the world. I feel different, strange even. I wonder if I’m ever going to fit in.

“You’re tellin’ me lies,” he says, reaching over and cupping my jaw. “What’s goin’ on, Pip?”

“Nothing, Tyke,” I say, pulling my chin from his grasp.

I am lying.

There’s so much going on.

I’m desperate to change, but I don’t know where to start. I want friends, I want a life, I want someone to love me . . . I want that someone to be Tyke, more than anything in this world. Yet it’ll never happen. He’ll never see me as anything more than the sister he never had. The broken girl he needs to fix. The desperate friend he can’t walk away from in fear of breaking her.

We don’t really have fun—he’s just always with me because he feels sorry for me. He’s my friend, but he never takes me to do anything. Is he ashamed of me? I wouldn’t blame him.

“I want a life, Tyke,” I whisper, staring at my hands. “I want friends . . . I want to go out and learn how to have fun. I don’t want to be so sad all the time. I want . . .”

I look away.

“What, little one?”

“I want to fall in love. I want to get married. I want to have babies and be happy . . .”

Tyke’s jaw is tight when he stares at me. “I didn’t know you wanted those things . . . I thought . . .”

He looks away.

“I’m a person, Tyke,” I say, so softly I don’t even know if he hears me. “Of course I want those things.”

He nods and looks back to me. “Then have them, Pippa.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I swallow and weak pathetic tears well up in my eyes. “Because I’m different. Nobody wants different, Tyke.”

“That’s not true, darlin’.”

“It is true,” I cry, looking up at him.

“Hey,” he says, gently cupping my cheek. “I like different, baby. Do you hear me? I like different.”

He does.

Oh God, he does?

“Y . . . y . . . y . . . you do?”

“Fuck yeah.”

A tear trickles down my cheek and he gently wipes it off. “Now, go and have a shower. Then come and sit with me a while longer; I’ve missed your company.”

I nod. “Okay.”

I get up and rush off to the shower, feeling my heart swelling with something unfamiliar. I’ve never experienced anything like it, but it’s a feeling I like a great deal. It feels a whole lot like hope, and I pray, God do I pray, that that’s what it is.

I shower quickly, then I pull on a pair of pajama bottoms and a light blue tank top, and rush back out to where Tyke is propped up on my couch, watching my tiny television. When I sit beside him, he turns and his eyes flare with something I’m unfamiliar with. He looks away quickly, and mutters, “Nothin’ good on.”

“Tyke,” I say hesitantly.

He looks to me. “Yeah?”

“Will you read to me?”

I don’t know how to read awfully well. I’ve learned the basics, but it’s not enough for me to read novels, or poems, both of which I love. Tana spent night after night reading novels to me when I came back. I miss that. Tyke writes poems, though he claims they’re not poems, they’re just words. I love listening to him read them to me—they soothe my soul. They make me feel as though I’m connecting with him on a whole new level.

Tyke studies me. “C’mon, Pip, you know I hate reading those things.”

“But why?” I ask, crinkling up my nose. “You write them. How could you be ashamed of them?”

“They’re just words.”

“They’re more than that to me.”

He studies me, then sighs, patting his lap. I allow myself to give a shy smile, then, with a pounding heart, I lower myself so my head is resting on his lap. His fingers move to my forehead and gently graze across it before sifting through my hair. He does this for a while, and my eyes start growing heavy. Then he shifts, shuffles about, and starts reading in a husky, gentle voice.