His eyes go to my exposed legs. I'm in shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt tonight. "Does it hurt in the cold?" he asks of my prosthetic.
"No. I have a special sleeve to keep it from getting too wet though," I reply and ruffle his hair. "Was it everything you expected?"
"You are amazing," he says, echoing a word I've heard his sister use on several occasions.
"Practice and attention to detail," I reply. Too hot to pull on my sweats, I zip up a jacket and pick up my gym bag. We head out towards the truck.
"How long until I'm as good as you?"
"A few years."
"Oh." He grows thoughtful.
I glance at him as we get into the truck. "It really depends on how hard you push yourself," I add.
"Hmmm. I was hoping a month or two."
"It'll take little longer than that. There's no rush. The snow will soon be too deep to be outside."
He nods.
"I have a schedule for you," I add and pull out a piece of paper from my bag. Handing it him, I then put the truck in gear and begin driving.
"Wow! Paintball!" he exclaims, reading the one-month schedule eagerly. "And basketball." The glow in his gaze starts to fade. "Claudia won't agree, Petr."
"She already did."
"Really?" His look is indecipherable, the emotions too deep and quick for me to pin them down.
"Yep. She wants you to be happy."
He starts to smile. "I've always wanted to be in sports. All the other guys at school know how to play soccer and football and go do paintball on the weekends. I can't believe she said yes. You're sure?"
"Positive. You can double check with her if you want."
"I believe you," he murmurs. "And you'll come with me to all these things, too?"
"Of course."
"My dad died when I was eight and Claudia has to work all the time. I've never had anyone to go with me anywhere."
His words are hushed without being sad, and he seems more awed than depressed. I can sense how lonely he's been but resist the urge to address the issue of why head on. Suffice it to say, he's been alone long enough that a simple schedule appears to be the best news he's received in his life.
"I couldn't imagine growing up without my dad," I say, genuinely troubled by the newfound fact about his life. It's a reminder I don't know much about either of them, not where they're from or whether their childhoods were happy or not.
"It's okay." He shrugs. "I miss him during Christmas. Do you miss your mom and brother?"