The call comes while Wade Morgan is knee-deep in sawdust and noise, the steady scream of a circular saw tearing through timber like it has a thousand times before. For a moment, he lets the phone ring. Unknown numbers usually mean problems that don’t belong to him anymore. Still, when it rings again and then a third time, he wipes his hands on his jeans before answering.

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat, already bracing.

The woman on the other end speaks professionally, the way people learn to do when they deliver bad news without wanting to own it. She asks if he is still listed as your emergency contact. There’s a brief pause, but Wade doesn’t correct her. He doesn’t explain that you’re his ex-wife, he just says, “Yes,” and listens.

Hospital. Accident. Unfinished stairs. Broken leg. By the time she finishes, he already knows what he’s going to do, he always does. Responsibility lands in him like muscle memory.

And so, not long after, the drive back into the mountains begins. Later, once the house comes into view, he’s already stopped once in town. The truck bed is full of grocery bags now, more than he usually buys, because usual doesn’t apply anymore. It feels strange, suddenly noticing how empty his shelves are.

Inside, you’re already there, arms crossed over yourself as you sit in the wheelchair, posture tight, eyes sharp as ever. He just keeps moving, setting bags on the counter, lining things up in a way that makes sense to him.

He clears his throat once and adjusts his cap. “I’ll figure out dinner. You don’t have to worry about that.”