Josh's pov
The front door was heavy. I had to put my shoulder into it, then quickly swing the wheelchair around before it could swing back. It was a routine. Push, swing, stop. I parked Dad's chair by the big window in the living room, where the afternoon sun made a warm square on the carpet. He liked the sun, I think. Or at least, he didn't not like it.
"I'll be right back, Dad," I said, like I always did. No answer. Just the slow, even sound of his breathing.
I went to the kitchen. The cool air from the fridge felt good. It was a hot one today. Jolina was at the counter, scowling at a loaf of bread like it had personally offended her.
"Can you make one for me?" I asked, grabbing a water bottle.
She didn't look up. "Make your own sandwich, lazy."
"You're already doing it. What's one more?"
"The principle," she said, but she was already pulling out two more slices of bread. That was Jolina. All talk.
