A certain amount of movement was inevitable. Gene figured he could handle the everyday comings and goings. But bending and straightening his leg in increments of twenty - exercising it - was out of the question.

“Your physical therapy will start in a week. Don’t come in here having not put any weight on that leg.”

The porch door slammed behind him. Gene limped toward his easy chair. He couldn’t shake the notion that this sort of thing would keep happening. The illnesses, the injuries. These lovely surprises would keep knocking him down, knocking him down. He was old. He hated to admit that to himself, but it was true. His joints were wearing out. His balance was off. The next surprise might lay him out for good.

Just let me get down to the coast before you take me.

Gene dropped into the old Broyhill recliner, and a heavy breath hissed through his teeth. He hooked his cane on the wicker end table next to the chair. It was supposed to be a fancy cane - lightweight aluminum with a padded grip. He had bought it after his cancer surgery, but he had picked the cheapest one. Already the shaft had worn through the rubber knob on the bottom.

“You can replace that piece, you know. Call the company. If that cane slips, you’ll have another fall on your hands, and I know you don’t want that.”

The sound of his cane clinking across the patio was still in his head. It reminded him of the blind kids from the special school up the road. Every so often, one of them would be on the corner, long stick in hand, teacher at her side, learning to cross the street. He couldn’t help staring at these kids as he drove by. Sometimes he would stand in his driveway as one of them passed, stick tap-tapping, teacher attentive.

Gene took his cane and examined the end. He traced his finger over the half-circle of metal poking through the rubber.

This better not cost me, he thought, and twisted the knob off the cane. He set it on the end table, on top of an issue of American Coast. A photo of a beach was on the cover. Blue sky and blue water. Monterey.

It was the other side of the country, but that wouldn’t matter once he walked out onto that beach and smelled salt in the wind. No hotels, he told himself. He would rent a bungalow right on the sand. The birds would flutter onto the porch and eat crackers from his palm. He could sit and watch the waves crash until the sun had buried itself into the ocean.

Gene traced a finger over the line on his knee. He was afraid of more surprises, but if he could squeeze in one trip, he would be grateful. One trip. It was all he needed.

A Blue Jay darted across the lawn and squawked at another that was pecking on one of his feeders. The two of them spiraled up into the air and away.

Is it too much to ask?

He dropped the cane next to the chair and shifted his weight forward. Gene straightened his left leg, as the doctor had instructed. He felt a shot of pain and relaxed. Then he bent the knee as much as he could. He relaxed. Took a breath.

Nineteen more to go, he thought, and straightened his crippled leg.