After several days and bed sores later, I would be discharged from the hospital. They had fitted me with a boot over the cast on my crushed foot in order for me to walk with crutches. That morning I'd been practicing with a skinny blonde nurse. "My armpits are killing me! A wheelchair sounds better every day."

"It's going to be a big adjustment. Easy does it."

Her touch stirred me, but when I closed my eyes in pain, all I could see was my dark-haired blue-eyed Katrina, wanting to feel her warmth again. This girl could hardly hold me up, though I sensed she felt for me and my sad story. It seemed everyone who worked the floor heard of my so-called mercy flight and how I should have died.

Despite the fresh pain that found its way up my leg, the doctor's words and warning registered. "Pain is a very good thing," he would say with his Indian accent. "It means you are very much alive. All things are possible."

Therefore, I grimaced through it with each faulty step. If the boot was designed to be a buffer from come what may, it was effective, but getting used to the added awkward weight on one side was something else. It was akin to having an extra-large, felted snow boot on one side versus the other.

My mother fixed her garage apartment for me. As a single mom, she'd used it in the past to bring in some extra income along with her stay-at-home job on the computer.

Even if when she liked to suffocate me, I had no choice. I couldn't tell her of my desire to go back to Colorado as soon as I was able to drive. She'd been traumatized too, on edge, believing I could die at any moment. She needed me to reassure her that I wasn't leaving anytime soon. My guess was it would be several weeks before I'd be able to maneuver inside a car with the foot pedals. Telling her of my plans to head back to Colorado could wait until I was close to cruising.

Almost every moment of the day I thought of Katrina. What was I supposed to do? You don't just stop loving someone. You don't just forget about your soulmate. Mr. Kiosk, her father was one of the wealthiest men in Colorado. I wasn't just from the wrong side of the tracks; I was from the wrong side of the country. Kiosk owned several warehouses in Denver, including the boxcars that delivered freight across the country. It was a big warehousing and shipping enterprise. What my mom didn't realize or see was that he hated me enough to ship me far, far away. But he must have had an ounce of soul somewhere inside himself. He could have found a way to finish me off from the accident. I suppose one day I should thank him.

The nurse pulled the shades up in my hospital room. The sunshine blinded me at first, but I welcomed the fresh light, despite the view, which was mainly of the AC units on roof from another bland brick building. But I was going home where I could almost smell the summery fresh cut grass of manicured lawns and hear the laughter of kids in the neighborhood. A new lease on life.

My mother bolted through the doorway. "Are you ready to go home sweety?"

"I've been waiting for my boarding pass."

Mom glanced at my boot. Her forehead wrinkled and her nose twitched. "That's how you need to get around?" Before I could say a word, rapid fire words shot from her. "I've remade the garage apartment. Easy access to and from the bathroom. Everything you need on the first level. Easy to get into the door to the kitchen in the house."

"Okay, Mom. I get it. Thanks. Ready."

The skinny nurse left the room, but then a janitor filled the doorway with his cart. "Do you mind if I do some light cleaning. He held a duster in his hand. He was a small man with silver grey thinning hair. Not the guy I ran into from the other night.

"Hey, no problem." I waved from the back of the room. "Say, whatever happened to that big guy who came into clean my room last Sunday? Does he work the weekend?"

The janitor put the duster to his side and looked at me like it was a quiz. "We don't have anyone that comes in on Sundays. They cut back on hours."

"He had a uniform like yours, olive green. I guess my mind is fogged from the medication."

"You say he was a big guy?"

"A good six feet tall. No hair. He reminded me of the old Mr. Clean commercial, only without the gypsy ring."

He almost laughed. "I don't know anyone like that on this floor, and I've been here for three years."

My mother looked back and forth at us with her arms folded, like it was a tennis match. "Maybe he was maintenance?"

The janitor just shook his head and started chasing cobwebs. "Sounds like he'd stick out in a crowd."

"I never got his name," I said. "But he seemed to know a lot about me."

He scurried about. "News travels fast around here."

My mother started packing things and pointing at objects to stuff in the suitcase she brought.

I hobbled over to my mom until more pain rifled through my armpits than the foot. Least I was alive and leaving toward a fresh start.

I didn't care to wait and see if Mr. Clean would make another appearance. He'd only created more questions about the accident in Colorado. I needed to know; I didn't kill my girlfriend.