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Jack stepped out of the way, watching Dr. Walsh and her team prepare to take the patient to surgery. He shucked his bloody gloves into a nearby biohazard bin and reached behind himself to untie the disposable gown that protected his scrubs.
Dr. Walsh gave him a withering look as they wheeled the gurney out of the trauma bay. He waved goodbye to her just to piss her off. She was unhappy with how he’d handled the case but the patient was going to live, at least long enough to make it upstairs to an operating room.
“Jesus Christ,” Ellis muttered, surveying the scene. Her forehead was shiny with sweat.
The room was a disaster. The floor was covered in blood, discarded packaging, and other items. Equipment was in disarray, cables hanging. The plastic covers that protected the handles on the overhead lights were smeared with blood. It was going to take the environmental team a while to flip this room and make it usable again.
“You crushed it, Parker. Take a breather, then go start your charting,” Jack told her. “Shift’s almost over.”
If nothing else insane happened, he might be able to start his own charting too. But he had inadvertently cursed himself because the thought coincided with the sound of a woman screaming.
He stepped out into the ER proper. A hospital security guard ran through the ambulance bay with a limp baby in his arms, the mother close behind him. The baby was in pink footie pajamas, her skin pale aside from chubby cheeks that were red and chapped.
“Give her to me,” Jack said. Her little head flopped to the side when he took her in his arms.
“Trauma 2 is open,” Lena called from the nurse’s station.
Ellis let Jack go ahead while she stayed alongside the mother. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I think she had a seizure.”
“How old is she? Has she been sick?” Jack asked.
Aside from the obvious, the difficult part of treating children was getting information from hysterical parents, especially when the child was unresponsive or simply too young to explain themself.
“Eighteen months. She’s had a fever all day.”
“Febrile seizure?” Ellis asked Jack.
Jack laid the baby down on the gurney and started pulling apart the snaps on her pajamas. “Most likely. Differential diagnosis, Dr. Ellis?”
“Hyponatremia, hypoglycemia, epilepsy, breath holding spell, meningitis,” she said, putting on gloves.
“She has meningitis?” the mother shrieked.
“We are trying to find out,” Jack said. “Has she ever had a seizure before?”
“No!”
There was a flurry of movement, gloved hands placing leads and checking vital signs. Ellis gently opened the baby’s eyes to shine a pen light in them as a nurse placed a tiny blood pressure cuff on her arm. Noting how warm she was, Jack threaded her squishy legs out of the footie pajamas. She thankfully had no rash to indicate meningitis.
“Temp is 102.9,” a nurse said.
“That’ll do it. I need someone to page pedes,” Jack responded. They didn’t use pagers anymore, instead relying on phones, but he was old. He looked up at the mother. “What’s her name?”
“Sadie.”
Jack whipped his stethoscope from around his neck and started listening to her chest. Her tiny face frowned at the touch. It was the first movement Jack had seen from her. He was relieved when she whimpered.
“Oh no, is it cold? I’m sorry,” he said. “Hi, Sadie.”
“Can I touch her?” her mom asked.
“Of course you can,” Ellis said. “Talk to her.”
The baby started to cry, a sound Jack was always happy to hear when he had a child in the ER. It meant they had an airway and their lungs were working. The mother stroked her baby’s silky-soft head of blonde hair while she continued to cry herself.
“Walk me through what happened,” Jack said.
“Her pediatrician said it was the flu and to give her children’s Tylenol for the fever. She was fussy but seemed better after the medicine. I went to check on her… Her eyes rolled back in her head and she was jerking…”
“How long did that last?”
“I don’t know. Maybe two minutes, but it felt like hours.”
“I can imagine.” Jack thought of his own daughters, even though they were adults now. “When was her last dose of Tylenol?”
“When I put her down at 7:00 last night. I knew she needed another dose around 2:00 but she was sleeping hard and I didn’t want to wake her up… This is my fault.”
“It’s not. Kids her age can sometimes have a brief seizure caused by a fever. And the fever doesn’t have to be particularly high, either. We don’t know what causes it. But you did everything right by bringing her in.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“Yes. I’m going to order a blood culture to rule out any nasty infections, but all her vitals are great,” Jack said. “And most kids never have another episode like this.”
The woman nodded, wiping at her face with her free hand as she continued to stroke her baby’s head with the other. She was calming down but still grumpy from all the prodding, bright lights, and loud, unfamiliar voices.
Jack looped his stethoscope around his neck again. So much for charting. “Someone from pediatrics is going to come down and look at her. They’ll probably want to observe her for a few hours.”
“Thank you,” she said.
A different security guard stepped into the room, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Are you the one blocking the ambulance bay? Lady, you have to move your car.”
Jack was about to ask the mother for the keys so he could throw them at the security guard’s head, because his lazy ass was just as capable of parking her car in the nearby lot. She looked to Jack.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll stay with her.”
She hesitated for a moment, but fished her keys out of her purse and rushed out. The overall mood in the room shifted toward calm. Ellis went to go chart. Jack kept himself leaned over the gurney, even though his right hip and knee complained.
The baby was no longer crying but her bottom lip jutted out in a pout. Her fever-chapped cheeks were streaked with tears. Jack couldn’t resist. He picked her up and held her to his chest.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said, bouncing her gently. “You sure scared us.”
Her tiny body relaxed against his even as she continued to fuss; it was obvious she felt better in someone’s arms. He tucked her head under his scruffy chin and swayed. After a few moments, he felt movement and glanced down to see her grabbing at his stethoscope. Her curiosity was reassuring.
He was talking to her when his dayshift counterpart came to stand in the doorway to the trauma bay. Robby raised his thermal tumbler full of black coffee in greeting.
“Oh, hey,” Jack said.
“Don’t you get enough baby snuggles volunteering in the NICU?” Robby asked.
“Never,” Jack said, still rocking her. “You’re harshing my buzz, by the way.”
“What happened?”
“Febrile seizure. She was already postictal when mom brought her in. She’s gonna be fine.”
“Love to hear that,” Robby said.
Robby shouldn’t have been surprised when, a few days later, Jack came down with something. But he could count on one hand the amount of times Jack had called out sick in the fifteen or so years he’d known him. Jack, widowed with adult kids, was usually the one covering for others.
In fact, he’d stood in for Robby a few weeks ago when he was sick, turning around his sleep schedule so Robby had a few days to recover. Jack was simply the latest victim of the virulent shit that had been circulating the ER for the past month.
“Bet you caught what your febrile seizure baby had,” Robby said in a text message. “Did you test?”
“Yeah, it’s that influenza A shit we’ve been seeing,” Jack replied.
“Sorry. Can I bring you anything after work?”
“Theraflu, please.”
Throughout the day, Jack added more items to the list. Halls cherry cough drops. Kleenex—NOT off-brand and NOT the lotion-infused kind, please.
The communication was a welcome change from Jack’s propensity to hide like a sick cat crawling under a porch to die. He was stupidly independent and rarely asked for help with anything, despite recent issues with his leg. Robby worried about him living by himself in that huge, isolated house. The guy was disabled, simply put, though Robby hesitated to even think of him that way. Woe be unto anyone who made the mistake of pitying Jack Abbot.
Robby left PTMC at 7:00 on the dot and went to the nearest CVS. It was late October and already dark, the streets shiny with the sputtering rain that had fallen all day.
Jack lived in one of the many hilly neighborhoods in Pittsburgh. The properties were spaced far apart, most secluded by acres of trees. Jack’s house was at the top of a winding driveway. In the winter, he cleared the snow himself with a plow blade attached to his Jeep.
It seemed far away from PTMC but Robby knew that if one cut through a nearby industrial area and drove five over the entire way, they could get to the hospital in 10 minutes.
A large, meticulously kept yard surrounded the sprawled out mid-century ranch. It was where Jack had raised his daughters, where his wife had died suddenly from a brain aneurysm, where the occasional PTMC resident or researcher stayed while they figured out more permanent housing. It was also where they’d had sex for the first time—a little clumsy from the bottle of red wine but affectionate in a way that instantly magnetized them.
Robby pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt in an effort to stay dry as he walked up to the house. He took his keys out the same moment Jack opened the door.
He was balanced on his pair of trusty forearm crutches, looking like absolute hell. He always had an aura of fatigue surrounding him; that was just the nature of their work. But Robby could tell Jack was really sick just from a glance.
“Hey,” he said, a little surprised. “I could have let myself in.”
Jack gave one shake of his head. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I already had it, remember? C’mon, I’m getting wet.”
Jack hopped back to let Robby inside. Decades of standing on his prosthesis for twelve hours at a time had fucked up his knee and hip. The crutches allowed his leg to rest between shifts and he was surprisingly nimble on them. So nimble, in fact, that he often left Robby in the dust if they happened to go somewhere like the farmers market.
“How are you feeling?” Robby asked, closing the door behind him.
“Terrible. I haven’t been this sick in years.”
“Yeah, it knocked me on my ass too.”
Jack sniffed wetly. His voice sounded strange from being so congested. “Thank you for going to the store. I felt too shitty to leave the house.”
Robby said it was no problem and he meant it. He herded Jack into the living room, where he’d obviously made a nest on the couch. Salem was laying in the warm spot Jack had left when he got up. She started switching her tail when she saw Robby.
“Outta the way, brat cat,” Jack said to her. “I’ll sit on you.”
Salem did not seem keen on being in the presence of her sworn enemy and jumped off the couch. Her black coat made her disappear into the darkness of the hallway. Sitting down with the added inconvenience of crutches took some effort, but Jack managed. Robby hovered, despite knowing Jack didn’t need help and likely wouldn’t accept it even if he did.
“I am going to make you some Theraflu and then take a shower, if that’s okay,” Robby said.
“You don’t need my permission,” Jack said evenly. “Get comfortable.”
Robby appreciated that. He was also quietly delighted that Jack hadn’t kicked him out in favor of suffering alone. It was an opportunity to care for him. Robby knew he wasn’t great at the emotional side of things, but he could show affection through actions.
Theraflu was just a medicated drink mix masquerading as tea. Robby used the electric kettle on the kitchen counter to heat some water. Jack had given up caffeine due to heart palpitations, substituting the lack of coffee with different types of tea, hence the kettle.
“Hey, help yourself to whatever if you’re hungry,” Jack said from the living room. The house had an open floor plan, so he didn’t have to yell.
Robby poked around while he waited for the water to boil. Whatever was a great description of the food Jack kept in the house. The fridge contained grapes, almond milk, a carton of eggs, and some random condiments. In the freezer were mystery ziplocs.
“What are these?” Robby asked, shuffling through a couple of them.
Jack craned his neck to see over the back of the couch. “Leftovers of things you’ve made me. I freeze them.”
“I know that—but they’re not labeled or dated.”
“Show me one and I will tell you what it is.”
“I don’t think I will,” Robby said. “Besides, you need these. You’d starve otherwise.”
Jack sneezed and then said: “Honestly, you’re not wrong.”
The kettle came to a rolling boil, the temperature switch clicked, and the water calmed to a simmer. Robby poured it into a mug with the powdery mix. The drink looked disgusting—weirdly urine-colored with a skim layer of froth. He didn’t think honey would improve it, but stirred in a generous spoonful anyway.
He brought the mug, a box of kleenex, and the cough drops to Jack in the living room.
“You’re so good to me,” he said in his creaky voice. “Thanks.”
Robby responded by touching Jack’s forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re really warm.”
“Yeah, I’ve got chills. Fuckin’ sucks.”
Robby started to say that the acetaminophen in the Theraflu would help, but he noticed for the first time that Jack was wearing one of his shirts—an ancient Pittsburgh Penguins tee that was a size too big for him and probably older than some of their current med students. The black cotton was faded and soft from hundreds of washings.
“You stole my shirt,” he observed.
Jack was mid-sip and sputtered, but he recovered quickly. “Is it really stealing if you forget it at my house?” he asked. Despite the challenge, he looked shy. “You’ve got an entire dresser drawer here.”
Robby was successfully flustered in return. “It looks good on you, that’s all,” he said.
Showering made him feel halfway human again, although he was pretty sure he used something that was not shampoo in his hair. He couldn’t read the label without his glasses, and there were multiple similar-looking bottles to choose from. He’d have to give Jack a hard time about being high maintenance and conveniently leave the not-shampoo part out of the story.
Jack was not exaggerating when he said Robby had his own dresser drawer. He had choices when he got dressed in the master bedroom. The hot shower made him tired, and he returned to the couch with a small assortment of random convenience foods for dinner. Jack drew in his knees to make room for him.
“I’m surprised you don’t have some sort of exotic nutrient deficiency,” Robby said as he sat down.
Jack was laying down now, a throw blanket pulled up to his chin. He was shivering. “Why? I live on those leftovers you give me.”
“It’s easier to cook for two people rather than one,” Robby deflected.
Jack had a cough drop in his mouth and it clacked against his teeth. “Whatever. It’s your love language.”
“It is one of the main ways Jews show affection,” he conceded. “What are you watching?”
“How It’s Made.”
“Gripping reality television.”
“Shut up. It’s soothing.” Jack kicked at him under the blanket. “And the remote is right in front of you on the coffee table.”
Robby didn’t change the channel. They were quiet for a little while, until he made a comment about the show and Jack didn’t respond. Robby looked over and saw he was dead asleep, half his face tucked under the blanket. He watched an episode about the making of hand-cut crystal glassware, then another about toothpicks, before he was thinking about sleep.
He knew he should nudge Jack awake and get him into bed, although it wasn’t particularly late. But he himself was perfectly content to snooze to the commentary on how apple juice was made. Salem played with her pink, glittery pom-pom under the dining room table.
It was 2:00 a.m. when Jack stirred. Robby’s neck zinged with pain as he lifted his head from the awkward position it was in. Jack squinted at the light from the TV.
“You okay?” Robby murmured, reaching over to touch Jack’s leg over the blanket.
Jack coughed and said: “No.”
Robby looked at his watch. “I can make you more Theraflu. It’s been long enough for another dose.”
“I’m gonna take NyQuil and go to bed,” Jack threw the blanket off himself like he was annoyed with it in particular. “Fuck, I feel like shit.”
Robby sat up straight and rolled his shoulders in an effort to get the stiffness to go away. If he happened to be twenty-five years younger and didn’t have a pinched nerve in his back, he would have carried Jack to bed. Instead he watched the slow process of Jack getting himself upright on his crutches, with the calculated and deliberate movements of someone who had fallen before. Robby itched to help somehow, but Jack would bark at him if he so much as sensed assistance. It was equal parts endearing and infuriating.
Robby countered this helpless feeling by demanding that Jack get into bed. It was obvious he was uncomfortable with being waited on, but was too sick to protest much. Robby brought him a dose of NyQuil in the tiny plastic cup that came with the bottle and a glass of ice water for the chaser. Jack’s pinched expression as he swallowed the liquid medicine was kind of cute.
“I hate this stuff,” he complained, grimacing from the aftertaste even after taking a drink of water.
“I know you do, but it’ll help you sleep.” Robby handed Jack the thermometer he found in the medicine cabinet. “Here.”
Jack looked like he wanted to protest but he put it under his tongue anyway. He was sullen while Robby put a box of kleenex and the cough drops on the nightstand. When the thermometer beeped, he looked up at Robby expectantly, apparently not too sick to be ornery.
Robby made his impressed owl sound when he took it from Jack’s mouth and looked at the digital numbers. “103.4—and that’s after having cold water in your mouth.”
“Fuck,” was all Jack said in reply. He yanked a kleenex out of the box and sneezed into it.
Robby went to the other side of the bed and climbed in; Jack turned off the lamp. He slid under the fluffy feather-filled duvet.
“Are you cold?” Robby asked. “You wanna cuddle?”
Jack, now completely buried under the blanket, was silent for a few moments. Then came the muffled, congested reply. “Yes.”
They both moved toward the middle of the bed with a quickness that suggested they both wanted to make the move before they lost their resolve. Robby laid on his back while Jack curled up against his side, shivering in short bursts. His freckled arms had goosebumps.
Robby tried to not worry as he stared up at the dark ceiling. There had been a time when he wouldn’t have had any concern about Jack having the flu. But the pandemic and all related horrors had left him permanently attuned to worst case scenarios. What was a cough one day could become Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome the next. He had to deliberately remind himself this was not COVID-19, Jack had zero comorbidities that made the flu dangerous, and the man was simply too stubborn to die in the first place.
“I’m fine, Robby.” Jack’s voice was tired, grating.
“What?”
“I said I’m fine. I can literally hear you worrying.”
Robby sighed but said nothing, instead petting the arm Jack laid across his chest. In response, Jack burrowed against him, trying to get impossibly closer.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Jack yawned. “You made the mistake of feeding me, and now you’re stuck with me forever.”
Robby gave an amused snort. He was still bothered by how warm Jack felt, and hoped the dose of NyQuil would tamp down his fever. He was soon to learn the medicine had other effects.
Robby thought he was dreaming when he heard Jack calling a trauma case. But as he became more aware, he realized he was in bed and Jack was beside him, talking in his sleep.
He did that sometimes, when he was particularly overtired or stressed. Or when he was on NyQuil, apparently. Most of the time it was funny; they had several inside jokes about random things he had said in his sleep.
“I need some suction. I can’t see anything,” he said.
Robby stretched and relaxed again as it got quiet. Jack had moved away from him and rolled onto his front at some point, probably when his fever broke and he got overheated.
“Fuck, I can’t find it,” he said. There was a pause as unseen events unfolded in the dream. “I need to clamp it or he’s going to bleed out.”
Robby didn’t like the edge of desperation in Jack’s voice. He didn’t talk like that in the ER. It made him ache to realize Jack was probably a much younger version of himself in Afghanistan.
“I’m trying! It’s retracted and I can’t reach it.”
Robby finally sat up and placed a hand in between Jack’s shoulder blades. His t-shirt was damp with sweat. He’d gone silent again, but Robby patted him until he woke up with a startled gasp.
“Hey, you’re okay. I think you were having a nightmare.”
Jack sat up on his elbows, looking miserable and confused. “Goddamn,” he muttered, putting his head in his hands.
Robby kept his hand on his back, rubbing him there.
“Was I talking?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Robby said. “It’s okay.”
Jack quickly wiped at one eye with the heel of his palm. “Haven’t had that one in a while.”
“C’mere,” Robby said, laying down again.
Jack hesitated for a moment, then slid over. Robby coaxed him into laying on top of him, their legs slotted together. Jack gave a wet sniff as he laid his head on Robby’s chest. Whether it was from crying or a runny nose, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter.
Robby knew the answer, but he asked anyway. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” Jack said, sniffing again. “Fuck no.”
Robby just gave him a squeeze in response. He could feel how hard and fast Jack’s heart was beating. Jack, for all his therapy and dabbling in SSRIs, was still just as broken as Robby. He found a sort of twisted comfort in that. Not from the idea that Jack was equally a mess, but from the knowledge they were the same. They understood each other.
He laid awake, rubbing Jack up and down his back, until his heart rate slowed. His head got heavy on Robby’s shoulder. Actually, every part of him was heavy—but in a way that Robby found comforting. Jack was like a very warm weighted blanket, and they both had enough middle-aged squish that neither was jabbing the other with any bony parts. It was easy for him to fall asleep.
Jack woke up sweating. Not from a nightmare this time; he cringed to think about what he’d said that had Robby shaking him awake. Fucking NyQuil. Never again.
He flung the duvet off himself and found he was alone in the bed. That made him unexpectedly sad. Maybe Robby had left. Couldn’t blame him if he did. It wasn’t exactly a restful sleep when the person beside you was having a little trip down Combat PTSD Memory Lane in their sleep.
He’d cried too, but he was pretty sure Robby didn’t see that. It was unusual, considering the fact the medication he was on made it nearly impossible to cry or come. Something about the combination of the stress from the dream and feeling so miserably sick had put him over the edge.
He was still miserably sick, and he allowed himself a time window for a pity party while he let the ceiling fan cool him off.
Salem kept him company in the bathroom while he showered and shaved. The steam from the hot water opened his sinuses and made him feel marginally better. His head didn’t feel like it was being crushed in a vice, anyway. When he went to throw his rank clothes in the hamper, he saw it was gone. At first, he was annoyed—what the fuck had he done with the hamper and why?—but immediately softened when he realized Robby was probably doing his laundry.
Salem did her best to try and trip him while he navigated the hallway, winding between his leg and the crutches. He asked her why she was so insistent on killing them both. The washer and dryer were both running in the laundry room, and there was music playing somewhere. It was strange to hear noise in his usually quiet cavern of a house.
Jack stopped short in the doorway to the kitchen. The island was littered with all sorts of ingredients, there was a stockpot on the stove, and Bruce Springsteen was playing on the bluetooth speaker. In the middle of it all was Robby, glasses perched on top of his head. Jack said nothing, wanting to be a silent observer for a few moments. Take a picture with his mind for the mental scrapbook. It was probably his fever creeping up again.
Robby wasn’t startled when he finally looked up and saw him standing there. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Still not great,” Jack said, wishing the answer was more positive. “I’m gonna make some Theraflu.”
“You’re gonna sit down and stay out of my way,” Robby said. “I’ll make you some.”
Jack didn’t have the energy to make a comment about being bossed around in his own house. He hopped over to the side of the island where there were barstools and situated himself with care. Robby put water in the electric kettle and switched it on.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“Matzo ball soup. Also known as Jewish penicillin.”
“Influenza A doesn’t stand a chance,” Jack said. “Can I help?”
He fully expected the answer to be no, but Robby slid the heavy wooden cutting board over to him.
“You can peel and chop vegetables, right?” he asked.
Jack snorted. “Yes.”
“Make the pieces the same size so they all cook at the same rate.”
“Yes, chef.”
Jack peeled carrots and potatoes with precision while Robby started forming a dough mixture into little balls. It didn’t appear to be an exact science. They were all approximately the same size and he handled them as little as possible before setting them aside and starting on another.
“Is this something your grandma taught you to make?” Jack finally ventured to ask.
“Yeah,” Robby said with just the hint of a fond smile. “And if I was sick, this is what she made for me.”
Jack couldn’t quite put a finger on the emotion that gave him. He focused on cutting vegetables into equal-sized pieces instead of trying to name it. Then he moved on to the onion, parsley, and dill while Robby disarticulated the rotisserie chicken. Salem became a pest the second it came out of the fridge. Jack thought Robby would be irritated, but watched him drop small pieces of chicken on the floor every few minutes in a ploy to keep her off the island.
When they were finished making the soup, Robby ordered Jack onto the couch. He didn’t come sit down himself, instead disappearing to take care of a few other chores. Jack ran a pretty tight ship, so there wasn’t much to do, but Robby switched laundry over, stripped the bed, checked the mail, and even refilled the bird feeders in the backyard.
Jack felt thoroughly useless even with the knowledge that he’d be scolded if he was caught doing anything. Robby wouldn’t even bring him clothes to fold. It was probably for the best, considering his whole body hurt. And once he got settled on the couch with his blanket, it was very easy to fall asleep. Salem jumped onto his lap, dropped her pom-pom, and curled up between his knees.
No crazy dreams this time, which Jack was grateful for. He was feeling a little better when he blinked himself awake to the sensation of Robby touching his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I think you’re gonna pull through,” he said. “Do you want some soup?”
As if that was even a question. Jack had no appetite and couldn’t taste anything, but he definitely wanted soup. They ate on the couch while they watched Tombstone.
Jack heaved a wistful sigh as they watched Doc Holliday, slowly dying from consumption, rally himself for one last hurrah. “Val Kilmer, God rest his soul, was my first man crush.”
“Oh, really?” Robby sounded amused by this information.
“Are you kidding? Heat, Batman Forever, Top Gun? Homoerotic beach volleyball was my bisexual awakening, brother.”
“Yeah, that tracks.”
“Are you going to tell me yours?”
Robby huffed and avoided eye contact while searching for a non-existent piece of carrot in his bowl. “Kurt Russel. More specifically, Kurt Russel in Escape from New York.”
“Snake Plissken. Okay. Edgy bad-ass with a disability.” Jack considered this for a few moments. “Your obsession with me makes sense now.”
Robby choked so hard on soup that Jack had to thump him on the back. He was still laughing when he said, “I think the obsession is the other way around.”
“Maybe. Like I said last night, your mistake was making me food.”
“Not a mistake,” Robby said. “It was a very calculated effort to trick you into liking me.”
“Well, it worked. Folding me in half on occasion helped too.” Jack said this only to make Robby blush, and he felt smug when it worked.
“That was one time and you complained for a week that I hurt your hip.”
“Because you did. But it was a good hurt.”
Robby shook his head. “I’ll stick to putting you in supported, orthopedic-friendly sex positions.”
“Probably not a bad idea,” Jack agreed. “We are of a certain age.”