Eleven seconds.
He cried afterward.
So did I.
“You’re crying,” he said.
“Shut up.”
“You told me pity was insulting.”
“This isn’t pity.”
“What is it?”
“Pride.”
Christopher looked at me for a long time.
Our relationship had changed slowly.
Caregiver.
Employer.
Partners in an investigation.
Friends.
Something else.
Neither of us named it for months.
Until one evening, after physical therapy, Christopher asked me to walk with him through the garden.
He still needed braces and forearm crutches.
Every step required concentration.
But he walked.
We reached the fountain.
The same fountain I had stared at my first day, when I arrived hungry, terrified, and certain wealthy people belonged to another universe.
Christopher stopped.
“I need to ask you something.”
“If this is about increasing my work hours, no.”
