Page 122 of Resilience

As she slid the container into one of the few remaining slots in Grammo’s crammed fridge, Sam set his hand on the small of her back. She turned to him, and he nodded toward the doorway to the dining room. Uncle Simon and Uncle Mav stood there.

“It’s time?” she asked.

“It’s time,” he answered. “Will you tell Leah?”

Since he’d started prospecting with the club, he’d begun dropping ‘Aunt’ and “Uncle’ from the way he referred to the older generation of their family—sporadically at first, but now it was getting to the point that he rarely used ‘Aunt’ or ‘Uncle’ anymore. She understood, but it still felt weird to her.

“Sure.”

He kissed her cheek and headed toward the doorway. He paused to say something to his mom on the way. He didn’t sign, but she knew he was asking for her help to start corralling people as well.

Uncle Gun had been home for almost two weeks. The preparations for getting him there had taken several weeks—in his house, doorways had been enlarged, safety features had been installed in bathrooms, the dining room had been made into a first-floor master bedroom, and more. Also, Sam and Mason had totally rebuilt the Wessons’ porches to accommodate switchback ramps that his new electric wheelchair could navigate easily.

The Spellmans’ house had undergone some changes as well, including ramps on their front and back porches and widening of first-floor doorways.

Uncle Gun and Aunt Leah also now had a new van with a wheelchair lift, and a portable ramp they could put down over stairs when they were away from home—as they’d done to get Uncle Gun into Grammo and Gramp’s house today.

But the biggest thing, or at least the most exciting, was what they were giving him today. His Christmas present from the club. It was a month early, but the weather now was good enough that he could use it. They couldn’t be sure about that at the end of December.

Anyway, he needed something good. Athena had been watching him all day; though he wasn’t in a bad mood, he was subdued, which wasn’t a natural state for Uncle Gun. He was hyper, usually, always involved in every conversation going on around him, laughing, snarking, stuffing his face, drinking, engaging in general revelry.

Today, at the typically epic Thanksgiving dinner table, he’d been quiet, mostly observing everybody else talking. Also, he’d barely eaten. That was probably due as much to his continuing recovery as to his mood, but it was definitely a noticeable difference. He needed something good—and, she thought, he needed to be the center of attention for a reason that wasn’t worry about how he was feeling.

Athena understood how annoying and demoralizing it could be to constantly field the ‘Are you okay?’ question.

She went to the laundry room, where Aunt Leah was putting a load of table linens into the washer. When Athena arrived at the open door, Aunt Leah was wearing a serious, contemplative expression, but she smiled when she saw Athena.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she signed. “What’s up?”

“I think they’re ready out front. Sam asked me to tell you it’s time.”

With a nod and then a sigh, Aunt Leah said, “Okay. I hope it won’t be a thing if he doesn’t react like everybody’s hoping. His mood is ... he’s struggling. Obviously.”

“I think everybody understands that,” Athena said. “That’s why they want to do it now and not wait for Christmas Day.”

Though she didn’t look especially convinced, Aunt Leah nodded again. “Okay. I’ll go get him.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, honey. I’ll get Aidan to help.”

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~oOo~

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When Aunt Leah, Aidan, and Larissa came out with Uncle Gun, almost the whole family was arrayed before them. The old ladies and kids stood in a messy semicircle on Grammo and Gramp’s front lawn, and the Bulls were lined up on the sidewalk in front of the club van. Uncle Rad and Gramps stood with them, the only ones not wearing kuttes.

Gunner steered his wheelchair down the portable ramp and onto the sidewalk. He was frowning, but not like he was pissed. More like he was trying to figure out what everybody was up to.

“What the fuck?” he asked. He didn’t sign, but Athena could see his mouth.

Uncle Eight nodded, and Uncle Simon opened the back of the van. He slid the ramp out and climbed into the cargo area. Sam and Mason stood at the doors, waiting to help.

The three of them rolled a brand-new Harley-Davidson Tri-Glide onto the street. It was so heavily modded it was basically a custom build, but at its heart it was still a Harley.

It was black, and Uncle Simon had done an elaborate paint job on the tank, with charging bulls on either side.

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