In the long days that followed, Mikey Angelo and Howard Baker forged a friendship fused by mutual purpose. To pass the everyday idle melancholy in good spirits, with dignity, humor, and pride. Two soldiers reluctantly forced together in the trenches, fighting an uphill battle.

  Along with Mikey's brittle bones and reticent outlook, his ebullient spirit was equally on the comeback trail. Each day, his shaky legs would take him a bit further (even if by one single step); his feet could stand the weight a bit longer, and his mind (perhaps his most stubborn of all encumbrances) navigated new inroads in what once seemed like rock solid barricades of despair.

  "At this rate I'll be up and around by June or July, tops. Still plenty've races to be run yet." He'd fashioned the habit of trudging up and down the room in his slippers, dragging the walker along for support, relishing every step he could manage without searing pain. Baker seemed a good enough sport about it, hardly reacting at all as he sat at his makeshift desk of operations, typing away on his laptop.

  "So you still mean to enter Daytona."

  On top of everything, his affinity for motorsports was 100% genuine. During one of their late-night pow-wow sessions, Mikey learned of his partial stake in a stock team up in Syracuse. Or Toledo. Or some other bumblefuck hole in the wall.

  "You better believe I do. Why the hell wouldn't I?"

  "No reason. I didn't mean to imply—"

  "I've seen more improbable comebacks."

  "Indeed, my friend, so have I."

  "I am gonna race again, Baker."

  "Yes, of course you are. I never meant to insinuate otherwise."

  Picking up his geriatric pace, Mikey thrust forward, groaning with every agitated step. Baker remained silently immune to, or simply accommodating of the climbing tension. Finally the walker clamped to an abrupt halt. Contemplating himself in the full-length mirror, Mikey grimly confessed: "Sometimes I just can't take this."

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The ominousness in the room amplified. Howard closed his laptop.

  "What's that, my friend?"

  "The slowness." Mikey said. "I'm used to the whir outside my window. To barrelling down toward the finish line. Everything here is so... distant. Far off."

  "That would seem to make perfect sense." His much older, and so far not terribly wiser companion leaned back into his orthopaedic pillow. "I know just how you feel," he said. "But sometimes slow progress means more in the long run."

  Mikey very much doubted the man's sobering sentiment. Maybe slow worked for men like Howard Baker; men who were on their way out of this world. But Mikey was still very much all in. And dammit, he had much better places to be.

  *

  "Whadoyousay, kid? You look like you could do cartwheels." Marve was late arriving as usual for his bi-weekly pitstop. His loud, booming voice tried to make up for his complete lack of enthusiasm, but fell pitifully short.

  "Don't get why you bother to squeeze me into your busy schedule."

  "Whadoya mean by that, kid?"

  "It's almost 2:15. Visiting hours'll be over before you can take your jacket off."

  "What can I say, I got a business to run, which has been twice as tricky in your untimely absence." His snapping grip jostled Mikey's flabby forearm as he held the kid backwards into a forty-five degree incline. "Muscles could do with a good toning up, that's for sure." Mikey ignored his inane ribbing.

  "So how is business these days?" He asked him instead, legitimately curious.

  "Slow." Marve answered without missing a beat. "Got enough on my plate with the repair schedule. Team is still scattered to the winds. Plus I've also busy keepin your friend Leo's hand outta the cookie jar...tryin' to keep his mitts off'a ya. Don't suppose you're ready for that humungous friend'a his to pay you a visit any time soon."

  An uncomfortable image flashed through Mikey's already-throbbing medulla oblongata.

  "What d'you tell him?" he asked forebodingly.

  "Told him you can barely breathe on your own with all the crap pumping through ya, so they'll just have to be patient."

  Mikey looked out the window. "Thanks."

  "Sure kid, what're friends for?" Marve fidgeted with his shirt-sleeves. "So where's this roommate I keep hearin so much about? One that got you to change your mind about a private room?"

  "He likes to do the rounds after lunch. You know, commiserate with the undesirables. He's very irritating that way."

  "Sounds like my kinda—"

  Speaking of the devil prompted Howard Baker to appear, with a small entourage of overly amicable order-lackeys. "And could this be the famous Marvin I've heard so much about?" Sporting his trademark million dollar grin, he stuck his hand well in front of him as he greeted their much talked-up visitor.

  "Marve'll do fine, thanks." Marve shook it, trying not to seem too off-balance. "And famous would be a helluva stretch."

  "Don't be so modest. Michael here tells me you're the best in the biz."

  Marve tried to regain his composure. "Is that a fact? Well gee, ain't that nice to know."

  "That reminds me. Penelope told me to tell you she's ready to go a few rounds if you're up for it."

  "Go? Where's he goin?"

  "Therapy." Mikey explained. "You should see the girl they got working me, she's—"

  "Say no more, kid. No wonder you don't wanna leave this place."

  Mikey strained into the waiting wheelchair.

  "Like you say, I'm not quite in game shape. Why don't you walk down with us?"

  Marve, hesitating, looked around the depressing hospital room. Mikey could see he was looking for a way out. When it seemed he could not find one, he said, "Sure thing, kid. Lead the way." And hung back behind them, to give his former golden boy and his new right hand man a comfortable lead.