The Hard Count
“My mom has been pacing up and down the long hallway, first passing my bedroom, then my brother’s. She walks from her and my dad’s room back to the main living room, each time something different in her hands—a vase from there, moving to here, a new painting she picked up at the decorator store, better for the bedroom. She’s redecorating, as if sprucing up our little suburban paradise will make people on the outside think we’ve got everything handled—that my dad has everything handled.
I’ve ...had my headphones on and my laptop propped on my legs for the last two hours, splicing video—watching Nico. My brother is in his room, in bed; his leg is propped up in a sling, a new rod holding everything in place. Broken tibias, snapped in the way Noah’s did, take at least sixteen weeks to heal. Then comes rehab and a brutal schedule already mapped out with my brother’s personal trainer to make sure he’s ready for draft day. Two schools have already fallen off the radar, but luckily, the others see it as an edge—less competition to snag Noah later in the year.MoreLess
I’ve ...had my headphones on and my laptop propped on my legs for the last two hours, splicing video—watching Nico. My brother is in his room, in bed; his leg is propped up in a sling, a new rod holding everything in place. Broken tibias, snapped in the way Noah’s did, take at least sixteen weeks to heal. Then comes rehab and a brutal schedule already mapped out with my brother’s personal trainer to make sure he’s ready for draft day. Two schools have already fallen off the radar, but luckily, the others see it as an edge—less competition to snag Noah later in the year.MoreLess
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