1. Fallon

Fallon

"Good morning, Mr. Alde," I say, taking a huge swig of my coffee and smiling at the elderly man in front of me. In return, he just scowls, grumbling something under his breath and walking through the door. His cane swings out in front of him as he goes.

Mr. Alde is one of my long-term patients who never seems to get any better or any worse. After taking a fall five years ago, his daughter, Megan, insisted that he come to see a physical therapist once he'd healed enough, and has dropped him off here, bright and early, every Friday morning since.

It's great to see children taking an interest in their parents' health and it would be wonderful for him to be able to make it up and down the stairs again. With the winters here in Burlington, it's important that Mr. Alde avoids slipping on the ice, ensuring he doesn't get hurt again.

There's just one problem.

Mr. Alde hates my guts, hates physical therapy, and scowls every time I open my mouth. Twice, he's "accidentally" hit me with his cane, and three times he's shown up only to stomp to the bathroom and remain there for the entire session, telling the male PT I sent in that he had indigestion.

I take Mr. Alde back into the exercise room and start by taking measurements of his mobility. He grumbles under his breath the entire time, but I soldier on, putting him through his exercises and offering him encouragement like I do every time we're together.

An hour later, his daughter returns, smiling at me and pulling her card from her Gucci purse. I stare at it, wondering what kind of job you need to be able to afford a purse like that.

As a PT just out of school, I'm too busy trying to chip away at my insane mountain of student debt to even consider buying anything designer. In fact, I just don't consider buying anything , full stop.

After paying, Megan collects her father and heads out the door with him. I watch them go, noting how Mr. Alde's in a considerably better mood once he's with his daughter. As soon as they're out of sight, I let my head fall against the desk.

"Mr. Alde?" someone asks. I turn to see Chloe, my friend and roommate, signing into the computer. She's lucky—her first appointment of the day isn't for another hour.

"How did you know?" I ask, with a great sigh, my head still pressed to the desk.

"You're melting," she laughs, rolling her eyes and grabbing a few folders from under the cabinet. "That's how I knew."

"Can you put me back together?" I groan.

Chloe smiles and pats my shoulder as she moves past. "Is your hot athlete coming in? I bet he could patch you up real quick."

I stand up straight, cheeks flushing hot and red, but Chloe's walking away, not realizing that her comment made my neck patchy with anxious spots. I want to tell her that he's not that hot—that "athlete" is a strong word. I'm pretty sure he just played lacrosse for a rec league, or something like that, but a door down the hall closes and I realize she's already gone.

My "athlete" patient comes in twice a week (but not today), and is adamant about only using the back door, the one that comes in through the alley. I don't mind treating him since he tips every time, even though I tell him it's not necessary, and probably not even allowed.

I like him because he tips—and definitely not because of how easily he jokes, or the way his eyes meet mine when I set my hands on him to guide him through stretching.

It takes me twenty minutes to recover from treating Mr. Alde, and by the time that happens, it's already time for my next patient. I work through the day, taking one appointment after the other, moving patients through their exercises and walks in the aqua-therapy chamber.

"Already lunch time!" Chloe says, when one of my patients—a burly construction worker with shoulder mobility issues—walks out the front door.

"Oh shit," I say, checking my watch. The moment I do, my stomach growls loudly.

Chloe and I find a place to sit in the break room. She shakes together a salad, while I pull out the same lunch I've been eating for the past two years: a peanut butter and cheese sandwich with a plastic baggie of chips.

"You're going to get scurvy," Chloe says, her eyes darting to the sandwich in my hand. "If the shame of eating something so disgusting doesn't swallow you whole, first."

"Hey," I say, thinking of my grandmother and feeling defensive. "This is a depression meal. I am depressed. Therefore, you can't comment on it."

"You're depressed?" She pauses with a bite halfway to her mouth, her brow drawing together. As the most level-headed person in our house, and the one with the longest lasting relationship, Chloe is the de-facto mom. Her eyes start to wander over me, as though she needs to give me a mental assessment.

"Well, financially depressed," I say, before taking a big bite of my sandwich. That package of cheese is four dollars, the jar of peanut butter is three, and between the two of them and a loaf of bread, I'm kept fed for two weeks. Maybe not nourished, but fed.

Chloe's mothering unfortunately sounds an awful lot like her boyfriend Joey's criticisms of my frugal lunch. Joey's in culinary school and doesn't understand how I can stomach eating the same thing every single day. Every morning when I make my sandwich, he re-informs me that Kraft Singles aren't actually cheese. And I re-inform him that I don't actually care.

After lunch, the rest of the workday passes quickly, and I get to see my favorite patient before the day is done. Her name is Adeline, and she's a four-year-old who was in a car accident with her family. Due to a mishap with her car seat, her legs were crushed. Her family sued and got a large settlement, but her mother, Michelle, cries every time they're here.

When she first came in, Adeline's best method of crawling was to pull her body with her hands. She didn't use her legs because she was so used to having the casts on.

Now, I help her walk a few paces, and she giggles happily, clapping her hands. Behind me, I see Michelle turn away, a handkerchief to her face. Hopefully someday, she'll be smiling, not crying.

Someday, they won't need to come here at all. When Adeline is graduating from high school, standing tall in her cap and gown, maybe they'll talk about how there was a time when they thought she wouldn't be able to walk again.

"Here you go," I say, patting Michelle on the back and handing her a pamphlet. "These are some exercises you can work on with her this week. As always, it was so lovely to see her again."

"Thank you," Michelle says, gathering Adeline in her arms and carrying her out to the car.

"Is that your last one?" Chloe asks, when I return to the desk. The rest of the PT staff left at least an hour ago—it's not lost on me that I'm always the first to arrive and last to leave.

But at least it's Friday. That means I can go home, eat whatever food Joey is working on, curl up in bed and munch on cheese puffs until I fall asleep with my head on the laptop, Rocky II still playing in the background.

"Don't forget," Chloe sings, as we walk out to her car, "it's game night."

Internally, I groan. Externally, I smile, nodding like I love game night as much as she does. I don't think anyone loves game night as much as Chloe does—in fact, the only reason we have the once-a-month tradition is because she won't stop buying new games, and Joey doesn't know how to tell her no.

Actually, none of us know how to tell her no. Which is why I'm sacrificing a chill night in my room for a loud, boisterous one in the living room with all six of my roommates.

When we get home, Chloe pulls her car behind Randall's and parks, taking a deep breath before gathering her Stanley cup, lunch box, purse, and backpack.

"You have too much stuff," I say, grabbing my small backpack with my trusty, high school Nalgene safely tucked in the side pocket.

" You should be using an ice pack," she argues, before heaving herself out of the driver's seat.

"Pretty sure my sandwich is non-perishable," I say as we walk together on the narrow, weed-ridden path up to the front door.

Our house—the house we rent—is a large, Victorian relic that went up when the neighborhood was first erected. It's a Queen Anne Tower House—a detail imparted by Randall, who seems to know something about everything. His room is, as he puts it, "the highest room in the tallest tower," which is just to say that he has the servant's quarters located up three narrow staircases in the witch's hat. On the second floor, Joey and Chloe share a room. I'm next to them, and Cassidy and Ainsley have the rooms on the other side.

When Cassidy decorated her door with pink wallpaper and sparkles, Ainsley returned the sentiment by painting her door in a special kind of paint called Black 4.0, which is apparently the absolute darkest shade of black you can get. There's a long back story to the paint having to do with feuds between artists, but everyone in the house avoids bringing it up, since Ainsley can talk about it for hours.

The only person with a bedroom on the ground floor is Gerald, our oldest roommate. He has the master suite with the attached bathroom, which makes sense because he pays more than the rest of us.

"Game night, game night!" Chloe chants as soon as we walk in the door. I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and settling myself before entering the kitchen.

I love my roommates. But living with six people, a bearded dragon, and a cat in just one house with two bathrooms can be a lot.

"Hey, honey," Joey says, leaning over and kissing Chloe on the cheek when she walks in the kitchen. She's the kind of person who unpacks her lunch box right away. I head for my room, dumping my backpack inside and shutting the door quickly before anyone can peek in.

I'm not normally a messy person, but after five twelve-hour days in a row, my bedroom is not looking its best. When I slip back out into the hallway, Ainsley is outside her door, a knowing smile on her lips.

I roll my eyes. "What? I just don't want Chloe to give me a lecture."

"I didn't say anything." She raises her perfectly black eyebrows. They match her hair, which is split-dyed with black and navy. She's wearing a simple black cotton dress with sheer tights, even just to lounge around the house. As we walk down the stairs together, I can see the paint under her fingernails and staining her thumbs and pointer fingers. She smells strongly of the incense she burns in her room, claiming it helps center her before she starts creating.

Somehow, Ainsley manages to live off selling her art, which is impressive, as I have two degrees and can barely get by on my salary.

"Game night! Game night!" Chloe chants, drawing Cassidy in, who's helping her carry armfuls of board games into the living room. Randall—tall and brooding with a mop of dark hair—sits in his recliner, arms crossed, a Pepsi in one hand, as he watches the two blondes bring in game after game.

It's an obscene number of boxes, and Chloe has to know that we won't get through them. If we're lucky, we'll manage to finish a single game around the breaks for goofing off, ill-timed bathroom runs, and eating.

Just as my stomach growls, Joey walks in holding a platter and presenting to us, "Bison and pork sausages wrapped in a delicate, flaky French pastry with a Worcestershire-tomato dipping sauce."

"Sick," Randall says, scooting forward in his chair and reaching out to take one, "pigs in a blanket."

"You did not just call them that," Joey gasps, moving to remove the tray. But Randall is quicker, and already has several of them in his hands. "Evil." Joey shakes his head, sets down the platter, and goes to bring out several more fancy finger foods.

Joey's cooking is the one definitive plus of monthly game nights. We settle into our usual spots: Randall in the recliner, Joey and Chloe smashed together on the love seat, Ainsley and Cassidy in fold-out mushroom chairs, and Gerald and me on the floor.

"How was Mr. Alde?" Gerald asks, as Chloe pulls out piece after piece for a new, complicated board game she claims will be "super quick to learn."

"Grumpy, like usual," I laugh. I glance over at him as I lean forward to take another bison-and-pork-sausage-wrapped-in-French-pastry. Joey should come up with a catchier name for the dish.

"I'll probably be like that," Gerald says, "in fact, you might have to work some PT magic to help get me up off this floor."

I chuckle with him and Chloe thrusts a set of dice into each of our hands.

"We all roll at the same time?" Randall asks, quirking a brow.

"That's so chaotic," Ainsley says, "I love it."

"The dice are color-coded," Chloe informs us, "so it's really easy to see, you just have to—"

A knock on the door stops her. We all pause, looking at one another, waiting for someone to claim the intrusion. Gerald will sometimes order pizza for the whole group, but even he just shrugs.

"No idea," he says.

"I got it." I set down my dice, getting to my feet. I'm the closest to the door, and everyone else would have to climb over Gerald and me. I almost expect the person to knock again, since it's taken a second, but there's nothing. I look out the peephole—nobody here.

It could be neighborhood kids playing ding-dong-ditch, but a twinge deep in my gut tells me that there's something off about this. Kids would have hit the doorbell. It's too risky to knock—takes way too long.

Standing in front of the door, I tap my fingers on my forearm, thinking.

"Who is it?" Cassidy calls.

"Uh…" My voice trails off. "Not sure."

I can hear them murmuring from the living room, and I decide just to step out onto the porch to check. On what, I'm not sure. I swing the door open but the tiniest, cutest little coo stops me in my track.

When I look down and see a baby sitting on our porch, I do the only logical thing I can do: I scream.