Luke crouched so his eyes were level with Mr. Alvarez’s. “I’m Luke,” he said. “I’ll do the legs if you’ll do the steering.”
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“You’re a big one,” Mr. Alvarez said, appraising like a coach. “Good for stairs.”
“Lucky me,” Luke said. “Lucky you.”
He scooped Mr. Alvarez up the way you’d lift a sleeping child—one arm under knees, the other around shoulders—careful not to bend the oxygen line that traced from tank to nose. The muscles in his forearms woke and did their job; the tattoos there looked like text in a language that meant hold.
“Nia,” the nurse said, pointing to three green cylinders. “Two full, one half. We can swap at the landing if we—”
