The Wake-Up Call

The smell of coffee had gone stale. Eli Martin stood behind the counter of Pine Needles golf club pro shop, spinning an empty paper coffee cup, watching the patterns on the cup go from big to small and back again. A fan above slowly turned, rolling the air in loops across the room. The front windows faced east; the sun hit them at an angle that made the glass look like a watercolor - washed gold, streaked with faint fingerprints of a hundred mornings. Outside the first cart sputtered awake. The sound tapped at a place in Eli's body he tried not to listen to. He rolled his shoulders gently - careful, always careful - and told himself it was a good day to take it easy. The bell over the door chimed, and a couple in matching windbreakers breezed in smelling like hotel soap and optimism. They wanted a glove; ball marker shaped like a cartoonish bulldog and a scorecard. Eli smiled on autopilot, found the sizes of gloves they needed, made small talk about the weather. He'd gotten good at this version of himself: helpful, unremarkable, forgettable. The one that didn't make any sudden moves. You could say almost robotic. When they left, silence returned to the shop. It had a particular weight at this hour - a hush the whole course seemed to observe, like a cathedral before service. Dew flashed silver across the first fairway. A maintenance man made a slow pass with a trimmer along the fence. The line of fresh cut grass neat and obedient behind him. Eli watched the trimmer blade work and felt, absurdly, jealous of its certainty. it knew exactly what to do. three years ago - two years and eleven months, and a few days, technically - he'd have been the one on the range. he'd have been the one warming up with that measured tempo the body knows before the mind doubts it, watch cap pulled low, his breath blooming in small ghosts in the cold air. he would have paused between sets to feel the shape of his swing in the air; invisible lines traced in muscle memory. he would have checked the ball flight and nodded at its honesty. The body tellls the truth long before the world does. And then there was the shot in Bedford - the one that felt like someone had slid a hot wire through his lower back and yanked on it. He could still hear the noise he made, half cursing, half animal cry, and how fast the world moved after: people running, hands on shoulders, the tilt-a-whirl ride on the cart heading to the first aid tent. Later, the word "sprain" felt too small for the way his life veered. Doctors talked in numbers and angles. Physical therapy was cautious and kind. He learned the language of ice packs and bands. He learned how fear speaks gently at first and then louder, until it sounds like reason. "Morning Sunshine." The voice came like a gravelly chord at the edge of shop's quiet. Daniels - no one ever called him anything else. He stood just inside the door, letting the warmth fold around him. He always seemed to bring the outside with him: the clean-cut air, the iron smell of wet grass, a quiet that wasn't empty but alert. He walked the way some men command rooms - shoulders squared, chin at ease, eyes that noticed everything around him.