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Scott stared at his ceiling for a long while, trying to think of something besides the weakness in his father's voice and the gaunt lines of his face. Think about the future, he told himself. After he graduated, he'd build a wheelchair ramp onto the house for this father to use until he was strong enough for the stairs again. He'd take all the curtains down--the ones both Cooper men had left in place since his mother's death--and have them cleaned, or replaced with ones close enough you couldn't tell the difference. He'd find a nice girl--one of the girls from church who always fluttered near the Genesis House boys, trying to decide if they should stare boldly or whisper behind their hands--and bring her home for a proper Sunday dinner.
Scott squeezed his eyes closed, trying to picture every inch of detail, trying to overwrite catheters and IVs and solemn doctor's faces.
Finally, he sighed, crawled out of bed, and tried to remember which sweatshirt pocket he'd stashed his cigarettes in.
***
Mark might have been trying to be quiet as he snuck around the outside of the house, but Scott had been sneaking places for all sorts of reasons since he was fourteen, and he was wise to the ways. Plus, Mark was kind of bad at it.
"Goin' somewhere?"
"What are you, the guardian of this holy abode?" Mark hunched his shoulders up. He probably thought it made him look badass.
"First nights are tough." So were second nights, and third, and thirtieth, but no point in saying it.
Mark sneered down at the smoke curling up from Scott's cigarette. "What happened to 'no nicotine'?"
"Progress, not perfection. I won't say anything if you won't," Scott said, deadpan. Mark was looking at--not him, the cigarette--like it might save his life. "Oh--sorry it's not stronger, but it's addictive, if that's what you're looking for."
Mark had the cigarette out of the pack and into his mouth so fast Scott hardly saw it. He held up his already-lit cigarette, only thinking he should have just handed over the lighter when Mark's fingers brushed against his. He felt the attraction--same as he had when he first almost bumped into Mark, same as he had standing in front of a row of birdhouses--breathed it in, then tucked it away.
Progress, not perfection, no kidding, he thought wryly. Even perfection couldn't compete with wide, vulnerable eyes and a sly sense of humor hiding behind a cocky attitude.
There wasn't much of a smile now. "Are you all right?" Scott asked.
"Fine."
Yeah, right. "You better stay the night. Take off tomorrow. Won't get a ride at this hour anyway, there's never anybody on the road."
"How long you been here?" Mark asked suddenly.
Scott ran a thumb along the edge of his cigarette. "'Bout five minutes. Couldn't sleep."
"I mean this place."
"Yeah, I knew what you meant." Wheelchair ramps, he told himself. Curtains. Sunday dinner. "Five months."
"You've been here five months, you need these more than I do." Mark crumpled the pack in his hand and tossed it onto the porch next to Scott. He stormed off, and Scott nearly let him go.
All of a sudden, though, Mark wavered on his feet, and Scott went to full alert.
"Hey, are you okay?" Mark kept walking. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Fine."
"You look pale."
"How the fuck could you tell, it's dark! Oh, shit!" Mark dropped to his knees, and Scott had a sudden flash of his father, clutching his chest in the middle of one of their screaming arguments and falling to the ground.
"Hey, hey. Shit. Ted! Gail!" he bellowed, then fell to his knees beside Mark. "Breathe. Just breathe."
***
Scott hovered in the hallway, staying out of sight of the doorway. He could hear Mark sobbing, and his hands clenched into fists. As soon as Ted came back in the front door from seeing the doctor off, he pounced.
"Is he okay? He doesn't have to go back to the hospital?"
"It's nothing to worry about, Scott." Ted stood there, solid and confident and sure, but for once Scott couldn't just take his word.
"He couldn't breathe."
"He panicked. Drug addiction leaves its marks, and sometimes it takes a while for everything to calm down." He clapped a hand on Scott's shoulder. "We'll take care of him."
Scott fought down the panic in the back of his throat and turned to walk away.
"Scott," Ted said quietly.
"Yeah?" Scott turned.
"How's your father?"
"He's--he's doing okay. The nurses say he's awake a lot more often."
Ted nodded. "I'm glad to hear that. You tell him we're praying for him?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
The muffled sounds of misery from the other room quieted, and Ted smiled. "Prayer's a powerful thing, Scott. You hang onto that."
***
An hour later, Scott was back staring at his ceiling. He tried to bring his plan to mind again, but his brain refused to settle on curtains and pretty girls and smiling fathers. Instead, he saw Mark, confused and desperate and in the kind of pain Scott knew far too well.
He rolled over and pushed his face flat into the pillow. He wasn't going to do this anymore. He'd promised his father; he'd committed to Ted and Gail; he'd sat there in those meetings, learning the steps and how to work them and how to make himself the person he wanted to be. The man his father believed he could be.
Our Father, he prayed, who art in heaven...why is it so much harder down here on earth? I'm trying, Lord, I really am.
But as he drifted off to sleep, he wasn't thinking about passing the potatoes to his father, or the sun shining off the hair of a pretty girl. He was thinking about the next day, and what Mark would look like sitting at the dinner table or standing in the sun outside in the yard, and what his face would look like if he really smiled.