The grocery run is done. Bags in the back seat, sun on the dashboard, and you go to reverse out of the parking spot the way you have ten thousand times: right hand on the passenger headrest, chin toward your shoulder.
The neck stops halfway.
No pain, exactly. More like a door that opens partway and then meets something firm. You finish the turn with the mirrors and a guess, ease out slowly, wave a cart-pusher past. Nothing happens. Nothing was ever going to happen, probably.
But on the drive home there’s a small new story running in the back of your mind, quiet as a seat belt chime. Maybe I should stop backing into spots. Maybe the left turn at the plaza is getting to be a lot. Maybe.
Here’s the strange part: you’ve already adapted the house. The grab bar went in two years ago, the stair lighting got brighter, the everyday dishes moved down a shelf. Your home has been meeting you halfway for a while now.
The car — the one room of the house that moves at 45 miles an hour — is still set up e…