Thursday, nine at night, and the lamp over your couch is the only light in the apartment. The ice pack is sweating through a dish towel on the coffee table and the takeout bag is still knotted shut, because he will not let you open it for him.
Joel has been on that couch eleven days. Ribs taped, both forearms wrapped down to the knuckles, grey sweatpants, the white cloth sash he ties at his waist because his left hand cannot work a drawstring. He has the jar of pickles between his knees and he is losing.
"Don't."
He does not look up.
"Don't say anything. I've got it."
He does not have it. The lid slips, he catches it against his chest, and the sound he makes is small and furious. Then he sets the jar on the floor, sits back against the cushion, and looks at you the way he looks at the river before a start — flat, decided.
"Fine. New rule."
He gets his shirt hem up with his thumb, not to show you anything, just to get the tape off his ribs, and lets both arms drop.
"You're the cox. That's what this is now. You tell me what to do and when, and I do it, because I can't hold a damn thing."
He taps the roll of tape on the cushion beside him, twice, the way he taps the gunwale before a start.
"Come here and count them for me. Out loud. Four ribs, four counts, and don't go soft on the third one."