Page 26 of Beneath the Indigo Sky

“Happy to.” I grin as I roll up my sleeves. “Looks like they’ve been here a while now; what have these poor cabinets suddenly done to offend you?”

Ken chuckles as he grunts and shoves the last of the cabinets into the center of the room. “This room has been nothing but a pile of junk for twenty years now, and I’m at the point in my life where I don’t want projects like this lying around anymore. I’m not exactly getting any younger here.”

Namid rolls his eyes. “You’re sixty-six, not ninety-one.”

This is clearly a conversation they’ve had more than once.

“Which is why we’re doing it now.” Ken grins.

Namid rolls his eyes again and huffs out an annoyed breath. Somehow, it feels like Ken won this particular battle this time.

“Is there a game plan?” I ask no one in particular.

It’s Namid who answers with a grin. “Umm. Get them upstairs.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Good plan.”

“Thanks, I thought so.” His smile lights up even this depressing, dirty basement.

We’ve congregated around the cabinet closest to the stairs as we’ve talked, and they both join me as I bend down to lift one corner. It takes a bit of time and a dozen tries to get it situated, but between the three of us, we’re able to slowly lug it up the stairs and out into the yard.

Namid falls into the few inches of fresh snow that coat the driveway. “Good job, team. I’m going to tap out; you get the rest.”

Without giving it much thought, I slip my hands under his arms and lift him back to standing. He groans in protest, but the smile on his face shines even through the grey mist that hangs heavy in the air.

Three dirty, exhausting hours later, there are only two cabinets left, and we all look like we’ve run some kind of mud obstacle course marathon. The dust and grime of forty years in a basement covers our snow and sweat-slicked faces and exposed forearms.

There is nothing different about the weight of the second-to-last cabinet, nothing different about the way we lift it or the route we take, but four stairs up, Ken’s foot slips. Namid and I scramble to redistribute the weight of the cabinet as Ken falls back toward the cement floor, but it’s awkward, and there is nothing we can do other than watch in slow motion as the unrelenting steel clangs into the wall, slips from our hands, rolls down the stairs, and lands squarely on Ken’s bicep, pinning him to the floor.

Ken’s cry is loud in the sudden silence.

Namid’s is louder.

“Ken!”

“Jesus. Ken. Are you okay? Oh my god. Okay. Let’s just. Can we…”

We’re both at his side in an instant, and it takes only seconds more for us to lift the cabinet from his arm and chuck it, uncaring, toward the center of the room. Even through the flannel of his shirt, it’s clear his arm is broken; arms aren’t meant to bend that way.

“God. God. Ken. It’s okay. Jayce, call 911. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

I already have my phone in my hand as Namid rambles, drops to his knees, and grasps Ken’s torn shirt sleeve. He rips it open, and there is blood and bone where there should only be skin.

Ken is pale and quiet as he tries to grasp at the damage until Namid covers his searching hand in both of his, clutching it until his knuckles whiten.

“Hey. Ken. Hey.”

Namid’s voice is shaking, but his tone is calm and steady.

“Hey, look at me, okay? There ya go. Hey, it’s just your arm, okay? You’re going to be okay. We’ll get you taken care of.”

“Ambulance is on its way,” I offer. My voice sounds more scared than supportive. How is Namid doing this? How is he staying so calm?

“I mean, if you didn’t want to help anymore, you could have just told us, old man.” Namid’s voice breaks only once as he tries to engage Ken in any way he can.

Ken’s body shakes in a pained laugh. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Drama queen.” Namid’s voice is gentle and caring as he curls his body over Ken’s, gripping his hand and distracting him as best as he can.

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