The crutch was honest.
It did not pretend.
He strapped on the prosthetic anyway because he knew his grandmother worried less when he wore it. Then he moved quietly down the narrow hallway, past the bathroom with the dripping faucet, past the framed photograph of his parents on their wedding day.
His father, James Whitmore, stood in the photo wearing a black leather vest, grinning like the world had never once hurt him. His mother, Emily, wore a white sundress with wildflowers in her hair. Caleb sometimes stopped to look at the picture when his grandmother was not watching.
He liked to study his father’s hands.
Big hands.
Square hands.
Mechanic hands.