“Should we call somebody?” a voice floated up from below. “Like—clinic? Or?—”
“We’re not calling anyone,” I bit out. “I’m fine.”
Nobody argued, which somehow made it worse.
By the time we reached ground level, my shirt was sticking to my back with sweat. They eased me onto a stack of plywood sheets near the open barn doors.
Austin pressed a water bottle into my hand. “Here,” he said. “You’re white as a sheet.”
I unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers and took a swallow I barely tasted. Around us, hammers had started up again in a half-hearted way, the rhythm wrong, the easy banter from earlier gone.
“Next time we keep the boss on ground level, yeah?” one of the guys said, trying to lighten it.
A few soft chuckles, nobody meeting my eyes for more than a second. No one was laughing at me. Everyone was being decent, kind even.
But the comment and pitying glances dug in deeper than if they’d pointed and snickered.
Austin crouched eye level in front of me, forearms braced on his knees. “You hurt anywhere that needs more than ice and ibuprofen?” he asked. “Be honest.”
My stump pulsed in time with my heartbeat. My hip would blossom into a spectacular bruise by tonight. My good leg was still vibrating from the effort of hauling more than its share.
My dignity felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.
“I’m fine,” I said again, the words ragged.
He studied my face for a long beat and didn’t call me on the lie. “I’ll grab your leg,” he said instead. “We’ll get you settled in your truck. You can sit a minute and see if you want me to drive you to urgent care.”
“I said I’m fine.” The snap in my voice made a couple of guys glance over.
Austin’s jaw flexed. “You’re getting in the truck either way,” he said quietly. “We’re done doing stair gymnastics for the day.”
He pushed to his feet and went to retrieve the prosthetic, leaving me sitting on a stack of lumber like another piece of misplaced material.
I stared at my hands wrapped around the water bottle, at the faint tremor in them I couldn’t blame on the cold. The sounds of the job—the saws, the muffled music from a radio in the corner, the shuffle of boots—blurred together.
This site was supposed to be proof that I was still the man I’d been. Instead, it had done the one thing I’d been dreading most.
It had exposed me.
I wasn’t a leader, I was a hazard.