Page 123 of Left-Hand Larceny

But then I think of Ragnar’s laugh. Of Howl’s big head in my lap. Of the way it felt to sleep through the night in a house that wasn’t mine—but felt like it could be.

“I’m getting there,” I say. “I think I’m closer than I’ve ever been.”

My mom’s eyes shine in a way I don’t expect.

She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t list the things I could still do if I just applied myself.

She just nods. “I’m sorry we didn’t see this sooner.”

I breathe in slow. “Thank you.”

It’s not a movie ending. There’s no swelling score or perfect bow. But it’s more than I thought I’d get.

After dinner, I head downstairs, sit on my bed, and pull out my phone.

There’s a text from Ragnar—just a photo of Howl with one of my socks in his mouth.

I laugh under my breath and reply with a picture of Pebbles sitting next to Fernie Sanders.

Me:

Pebbles is settling in nicely. They want a puppy, too.

He responds a minute later.

Ragnar:

Anything you need, sæt stelpa mín.

I watch myself on screen and barely recognize the guy.Not because I look different—same hoodie, same too-long hair curling at my collar, same scar over the bridge of my nose from the junior league brawl I never talk about. But the way I talk?

That’s new.

Not smoother. Not flashier. I still get stuck on words.

Just… open.

“Okay,” Tristan says, dragging the timeline bar back a few seconds. “This one. You say your pregame meal’s usually plain rice, boiled chicken, and eggs, and someone in the comments says that’s criminal behavior.”

I grin. “They’re n-n-not wrong.”

She hits play again and my voice fills the room—slower than most people talk, careful, rhythmic. But confident. There’s a beat where I pause, stutter once on rice, and push through it without flinching.

We let the video play. The one I filmed in my living room with my dog on the floor behind me.

I talk about rituals. About the song I always skate to during warmups. About the way my Amma always says peppermint helps with focus. About Howl, and how he’s learned the word treat in both languages.

The screen freezes on my smile at the end.

“You like it?” Tristan asks.

I stare for a second, then nod. “I… think I d-do.”

“It’s honest,” she says. “It’s you. That’s what people want.”

“Even with the stutter.” Not a question.

“Especially with the stutter.” A statement. “You know most of us don’t even notice anymore, right?”

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