Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The night Buck decided to leave did not start dramatically. It started quietly. His parents sat at the kitchen table with brochures spread out in neat stacks. Words like specialized, long-term care, and residential support were printed in soft colors that felt anything but soft. Andrea sat in her wheelchair near the counter, hands tight around the armrests.
She kept her face neutral, but Buck saw the shift in her jaw. He knew that look. She had heard enough.
They talked about structure. About professionals. About what was “best.” Buck listened until the word permanent slipped out. Something in him locked into place. He did not yell. He did not argue. He stood up, walked to Andrea’s room, and started packing.
He folded her clothes first. Comfortable ones. The purple hoodie she liked. Adaptive shoes. He grabbed her walker, disassembled it, and set it near the door. He found the binder with her medical records, therapy notes, and emergency contacts. His hands moved fast, steady. Andrea watched him from the hallway.
“You serious?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “You are coming with me?”
She did not hesitate. “Obviously.”
Their parents called him irresponsible. Said he had no plan. Said he would ruin both their lives. Buck kept packing. When he finally rolled Andrea out to the van, the sky was streaked orange and pink. The sun dipped low as he secured her chair, checked the straps twice, then climbed into the driver’s seat. His hands shook when he started the engine. He did not look back. They drove toward Los Angeles with no address and no safety net, just a stubborn promise that she would not be sent away.
The first apartment in L.A. was small. Ground floor, cracked tile, a narrow bathroom that barely fit her chair. Buck chose it because the entrance had only one step. He built a small ramp himself with cheap lumber and a borrowed drill. The landlord complained about modifications. Buck offered to paint the whole place in exchange for permission to install grab bars. He watched tutorial videos late at night and learned how to anchor them into studs so they would hold her weight safely.
Money stayed tight. Buck worked long shifts, picked up extra hours wherever he could. He learned how to stretch groceries, how to cook meals that helped manage inflammation, and how to transfer Andrea from chair to couch without straining her hips. They practiced emergency drills in case of fire. He timed himself getting her out the door. He refused to be unprepared.
Andrea adapted faster than he did. She mapped the apartment in days. She teased him when he hovered too much. “I have CP,” she told him once, rolling past him with her walker. “Not glass bones.” He laughed, tension easing for the first time in weeks. At night, when the city noise filtered through thin windows, they would sit on the floor, backs against the couch. Buck would talk about maybe joining the fire academy. Andrea would listen, then say, “You already act like a hero. Might as well get paid.”
Training for the firefighter exam pushed him harder than anything before. He woke before sunrise to run. He trained at local gyms. He studied until his eyes burned. Every lift, every timed drill, every written test felt heavier because failure did not belong only to him. If he failed, he lost stability. Health insurance. A future.
On the day of the test, Andrea insisted on coming. She wore her purple hoodie and parked herself near the viewing area, hands folded in her lap, as if she were judging the Olympics. Buck moved through the physical course with focus sharpened by years of carrying more than his own weight. Hose drag. Stair climb. Dummy pull. He thought about midnight wheelchair repairs. About lifting her safely after a fall. About building ramps from scrap wood. His body knew how to work under pressure.
When the results were posted, his name sat there in black ink. Passed.
He stared at it for a long second before turning. Andrea already knew. She grinned, eyes bright. “Told you,” she said.
Buck crossed the distance and dropped to his knees in front of her chair, breath shaky. He pressed his forehead to her hands. He did not cry when they left home. He did not cry when money ran low. He cried then.
Not because he made it.