His leg took time.
His trust took longer.
At first he hid food in pillowcases and under the bed.
Lily cried when doors closed too firmly.
Both children woke at small noises.
Peter learned to announce everything.
“I’m closing the laundry room door.”
“I’m going to the mailbox.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He learned which night-light Lily liked.
He learned that Drew preferred the bedroom door open exactly halfway.
He learned that macaroni and cheese felt safe to both of them, but tomato soup did not.
He learned that healing did not look like a movie ending.
It looked like Lily asking for seconds.
It looked like Drew laughing once at a cartoon, then looking embarrassed because he had forgotten to be scared.
It looked like two small backpacks by the front door and a calendar full of appointments.
Months later, Peter finally fixed the loose hinge.
Drew watched from the porch swing with his cast gone and a brace still on his leg.
Lily sat beside him eating crackers slowly, the way Drew had taught her.
Peter tightened the last screw and tested the door.
It opened smoothly.
It closed without sticking.
Drew looked at it for a while.
Then he said, “This door locks from the inside, right?”
Peter set the screwdriver down carefully.
“Yes.”
“And we can open it?”
“Always.”
Drew nodded.
Lily leaned against his shoulder.
