Getting home is like a reward.
Every damn day, I stagger through that front door and fall face first on the couch. Lisa takes the recliner, saying she prefers to curl up and face the pain in a fetal position. I like to stretch out. It works.
Kellan has tactfully avoided mentioning how we look since the first day he brought us home and made a small misstep, getting verbally eviscerated by Lisa.
He's in the kitchen now, ordering food from somewhere. I don't care where. As long as it's edible and I can eat it without having to care about table manners.
Lisa usually complains when Kellan orders something without input from either of us, but she's too absorbed in napping her pain away to care, either.
My phone buzzes on the table next to the couch, startling me out of my exhausted daze. I grab it, my muscles protesting the movement, and see Clayton's name on the screen.
