A Helping Hand: Part 1

April steered Lyra into the front seat. The girl sat stiffly, gauze still taped across her left eye, the right one clouded and unfocused. April’s hand rested on the gearshift between them. “I’m here for the week,” she said. “We’ll get you back on your feet.” Lyra answered with a small nod. The car’s heat hummed. Traffic crawled. Inside the house, April eased her onto the bed, then stepped aside while Lyra shuffled to the bathroom. The soap dish felt slick and empty under numb fingers. Lyra tried to lather anyway, her movements slow, uncertain. Water ran cold across her wrist. April knocked once, then came in. “I can help you undress if you want that bath.” Lyra hesitated, then lifted her arms, letting April peel off the cotton shirt, the cotton bra, the stretchy leggings, the plain black panties. April’s eyes lingered—shoulders tight, stomach flat, thighs smooth from weeks of hospital stillness. She reached for the tap. Nothing but cold rushed out. Lyra’s chin dropped. A tear slid down her cheek, then another. April pulled her close, murmuring, “Come on, let’s get you in bed.” Lyra sank into the sheets, shoulders still trembling. “Stay,” she whispered when April turned to leave. April paused. Lyra rose on one elbow, found April’s mouth, and kissed her, slow and careful, tasting salt. “Thank you,” she breathed against April’s lips.