Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
The trip to the kitchen was suddenly rife with unexpected hazards. A squeaky dog toy sent him lurching to one side, groaning at his wrenched ribs and the shock of pain that shot through his leg. When he could move again, his crutch clipped the edge of a pile of unopened mail that had sat for weeks, which cascaded across the floorboards like a croupier’s expert spread of cards.
Naturally, that got the attention of several animals and Jack stood very still while the envelopes were swatted at, swept by tails, and finally, in the case of the largest envelope, flopped upon by Pickles, the smallest of his cats.
Mayonnaise, a sweet white cat with one green eye missing, slunk up to him on the counter and butted her little head against his arm.
“Hi,” he said, and kissed her fuzzy head. She gave him a happy chirp, then darted out the window cat door above the sink.
Everything took four times as long as usual and required ten times the energy. The crutches dug into his underarms with every touch, bruising and chafing the skin there and catching on his armpit hair. His leg hurt horribly and the longer he stayed upright the worse it ached as the blood rushed downward. His head throbbed and throbbed and throbbed.
Though he’d gotten up while it was still dark, the sun had risen during the rigamarole of making coffee and eggs. Jack scarfed the eggs directly from the pan, afraid if he tried to sit down at the kitchen table he wouldn’t be able to get back up.
He realized too late that he couldn’t bend down to put food and water in the animals’ bowls and began a messy process of attempting it from his full height.
His first try slopped water all over the floor. Swearing, he dropped towels over the spills, moving them with the tip of his crutch to soak up the water. Next came the dog food, and Jack practically cheered when most of it went in the bowls.
The cat food, smaller, skidded everywhere, and Pirate and Pickles looked up at him for a moment as if offended. Then they had great fun chasing the food all over the floor. When the dogs joined the chase it resulted in the knocking over of bowls of water, the soaking of food, the scarfing of said food by the dogs and a counter full of hissing cats.
Jack opened a tin of tuna and let them at it, staring at his ravaged kitchen. It looked like the forest floor on a muddy day and it stank of wet dog food. The prospect of trying to clean it up left him short of breath and exhausted.
Bernard, always one to lurk until the end of mealtimes, hoping to scarf a stray mouthful, shoved his face in the mess.
“Good dog,” Jack said. He’d meant to say it wryly, but it came out with relieved sincerity.
Louis, the least social of his cats—he only liked Puddles—poked his gray and black head out of the bedroom, sniffed the air, and decided that whatever he smelled didn’t portend well. He eschewed breakfast with a flick of his tail and retreated back inside the bedroom. Jack made a mental note to leave a bowl out for him later.
Just as Jack sank onto the couch, the dogs started shuffling to the front door the way they only did on the rare occasions when someone was approaching. Jack groaned. He hauled himself back up and pretended not to hear his own pathetic whimper as he made his way to the door.
“Back up, come on,” Jack wheezed at the animals. Then, in a whisper, “Be extremely cute so this guy likes you.” Then he yanked the door open.
There, with one hand half-raised to knock, stood a man made of contrasts.
He was tall—only an inch or two shorter than Jack’s six foot three—but his shoulders were hunched and his head hung low, like he was trying to disappear. His clothes were mismatched and worn—soft jeans, a faded green shirt, a peach and yellow sweater, and a red knit scarf—but every line of his body was frozen and hard.
Then he lifted his chin and glanced up at Jack for just an instant, and Jack couldn’t pay attention to anything but his eyes. A burning turquoise blue that shocked him because after years of drawing he’d always thought blue was a cool color. But not this blue. This was the blue of neon and molten glass and the inside of a planet. This was the blue of fire.
As quickly as he’d looked up, the man dropped his gaze again, and Jack immediately missed that blue.
“Uh, hey. You SimpleSimon?”
His head jerked up again and this time there was anger in his eyes.
“On the app, I mean? I’m Jack.”
Jack held out his hand and Simon inched forward slowly, then shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his heel on the ground. He had messy dark hair that, from Jack’s view of the top of his head, was mostly swirls of cowlicks.