and then the elevator opened, revealing Isaac and his mom.
He wore sunglasses and clung to his mom’s arm with one hand, a cane in the other.
“Support Group Hazel not Monica,” I said when he got close enough, and he smiled and said, “Hey, Hazel. How’s it going?”
“Good. I’ve gotten really hot since you went blind.” “I bet,” he said.
His mom led him to a chair, kissed the top of his head, and shuffled back toward the elevator.
He felt around beneath him and then sat. I sat down in the chair next to him.
“So how’s it going?” “Okay. Glad to be home, I guess. Gus told me you were in the ICU?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sucks,” he said. “I’m a lot better now,” I said. “I’m going to Amsterdam tomorrow with Gus.”
“I know. I’m pretty well up-to-date on your life, because Gus never. Talks. About. Anything. Else.” I smiled.
Patrick cleared his throat and said, “If we could all take a seat?” He caught my eye.
“Hazel!” he said. “I’m so glad to see you!” Everyone sat and Patrick began his retelling of his ball-lessness,
and I fell into the routine of Support Group: communicating through sighs with Isaac,
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