The grin on his face fades as he scans the cottage. “I don’t want you on stairs,” he says. “I’ll build you a ramp.” I bristle. “I don’t want a ramp.” A big sigh from Davis behind us. “Tough shit,” Wyatt growls as Davis sets down my walker. A piece of me for the next three months. Discombobulated, I get my bearings by gripping the rubber handles of my walker.
