Page 73 of Redline
She laughs softly, a sound tinged with a delicate sort of sadness. "No, dear. I haven't picked up a brush in years. I’m afraid my hands decided they no longer wished to follow instructions."
She holds her hands out, palms up. They look elegant, but as I watch, a faint, rhythmic tremor pulses through her fingers.
"The nerves," she explains, her tone more clinical than weary. "The numbness sets in, and the world goes quiet. I can hold a painting, but I can no longer feel the weight of a brush. It’s like trying to play a piano with gloves made of lead."
I look down at her hands, then back to the landscapes. "Is it... is there a way to treat it?" I ask, the question out before I can stop it.
"Unfortunately, no," she says, her voice steady—the kind of calm that only comes after years of accepting the inevitable. "It started in my hands, but over the years, the feedback from my legs just... faded. The chair made the world much easier to navigate once standing became more of a chore than it was worth."
My eyes drop to the polished metal of her chair, the reality of it suddenly feeling heavy in my chest. My gaze shifts to Dominic, a dull, heavy thud echoing in my chest as she adds, "It seems to have become a bit of a Valerio trait."
Dominic doesn't meet my eyes. He’s already moving, leaning down to prop the canvases carefully against the base of the wall. He stays there, crouched low, his back a rigid, unyielding line under the fine wool of his jacket.
"I'll come back and hang these for you another day," he says. His voice is thick, sounding filtered, as if he’s speaking from deep underwater. "When I have the right tools. We don't want them falling.”
He lingers there a second too long, his fingers skimming over the edge of the frames. When he finally stands, he’s busy smoothing the front of his shirt, his movements mechanical and far too precise. He looks everywhere but at me, his mouth set in a way that makes the muscles in his neck jump.
His mom watches him, the teasing light in her eyes replaced by a quiet, devastating sympathy. She doesn't say a word, but the way she silently tracks the restless tension in his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed.
"I would like to go out to the garden," she says, her voice bright and decisive, cutting through the sudden weight in the room. "It’s a beautiful day, and I want Carter to see the flowers before the light changes."
Dominic doesn't argue. He moves behind her, his hands settling onto the grips of her chair with a practiced, careful hold. He begins to pivot her toward the doors leading to the terrace, but his mother places a hand over his.
"No, let’s take the long way," she says, gesturing toward the interior hallway. "It’s louder this time of day."
Dominic’s shoulders tighten—a flicker of resistance that vanishes as quickly as it appeared—and he silently adjusts his path. We leave the sun-drenched suite behind, our footsteps echoing against the hallway.
As we move deeper into the facility, the atmosphere shifts. The heavy rugs disappear, replaced by floors that hum under the wheels of the chair. We turn a corner, and the silence is broken by the distant, high-pitched chime of a cartoon theme song and the sudden, chaotic energy of a toddler racing across the hallway.
This wing is a burst of primary colors—walls covered in lopsided rainbows and a ceiling that’s a sea of hanging paper stars. His mother beams as we pass a small group of children gathered around a table in a glass-walled playroom. She catches the eye of a little girl with a patch over one eye and offers a playful, elegant wave. The child giggles, waving back with a crayon-stained hand, and her face lights up with a genuine, unburdened warmth.
Dominic’s mother talks away, pointing out a new mural or mentioning a nurse’s name, her voice light and unbothered. Dominic, however, has gone entirely silent. The relaxed, sappy version of him from before we arrived is gone, replaced by a rigid, focused intensity. He doesn't look at the murals or the children. He keeps his eyes locked on the path ahead, navigating the wheelchair around a stray plastic truck with a focus so sharp it’s almost painful to watch.
I can't stop looking through the glass partitions. Every single room has a teddy bear—some perched on windowsills, others tucked into small, rumpled beds. My mind flashes back to that worn photo in Dominic’s room. Him and Luka, small and wide-eyed, standing on either side of their mother while a younger Dominic clutched a bear to his chest.
The pieces begin to click into place, unwanted and immediate. I look at Dominic’s rigid back and the way he navigates these halls with the muscle memory of someone who didn't just visit. The math finally adds up, and the realization lands hard.
A quiet click sounds from the desk, and the doors at the end of the hall release. The clinical air is instantly traded for the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. We’ve reached the gardens—a sprawling expanse of manicured hedges and vibrant flower beds that seem to swallow the building behind us.
"It really is the best part of the facility, don't you think, Carter?" his mom asks, her voice pulling me back as she gestures to the path ahead.
"It is," I agree, my voice cheerful despite the heavy, churning realization swirling my thoughts. "Absolutely beautiful."
The garden is a masterpiece of order and color, but I can't look at the flowers. I’m too busy watching the way Dominic’s knuckles stay tight against the handles of the chair, his shoulders braced as if the garden air is thinner than the oxygen in the ward. He’s silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon, shielding his mother from the uneven gravel just as he’s spent his whole life shielding this part of himself from the world.
I follow them down the path, the distance between us suddenly feeling both shorter and infinitely more dangerous. I wonder why the person who spent so long trying to drive me off suddenly decided to trust me with the one thing that could actually break him. And more importantly, I wonder what this means for us once we finally walk back out those doors.
Chapter twenty-one
Carter
The drive back is different from the ride out. The silence isn't thick with the tension of what might happen; it’s heavy with the reality of what already has. Dominic drives with a focused precision, eyes fixed on the road as if he can outpace the conversation waiting for us in the quiet.
We pull into the parking lot of SHIFT.
I’m already reaching for the door handle when I realize Dominic is out of the car and rounding the hood before I can even unbuckle. He doesn't wait. He just opens my door and walks me toward the entrance like it’s a foregone conclusion.
The bell above the door gives its familiar, tinny chime. Margaret is behind the counter, mid-wipe on a ketchup bottle. She looks up, her face lighting up the second she sees me.
