Hooking my arm through his, I rested my cheek on his shoulder and whispered, “You’re going to make it, Johnny.” “Don’t put money on it,” he replied quietly, hand moving to his thigh. “I don’t think it’s going to happen for me, Shan,” he added, voice barely more than a whisper as he adjusted the bandage I knew was strapped to his thigh beneath his school trousers. “Not this summer.” “I do,” I countered, sliding my hand down his arm to link with his. “I know it.” Entwining our fingers, I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
