Ate them slowly.
Nobody rushed him.
Nobody took them away.
Diesel pretended to read a magazine about motorcycles he'd already read twice.
"Emmett Holloway?"
A nurse called from the doorway.
They both stood.
The examination took 22 minutes.
The doctor, a woman in her late 50s with kind eyes and efficient hands, unwrapped Emmett's left hand carefully.
Studied the fingers.
Pressed gently along each one.
Had him make a fist. Then spread his fingers wide.
"Full range of motion," she said. "No tissue death. No nerve damage. You got very lucky."
"Diesel got me warm fast enough," Emmett said.
"Diesel did excellent work," the doctor agreed.
She looked at him through the doorway where he was waiting.
"But you're the one who walked 6 miles in the cold. That took something most people don't have."
Emmett didn't know what to say to that.
The doctor wrapped his hand in a lighter bandage.
Gave him instructions for care.
Told him to come back in 2 weeks.
Then she said something that made Emmett's throat tighten.
"Thank you for getting her to safety. Lily. I heard what you did."
Emmett blinked hard.
Looked at the floor.
"I just walked."
"You did more than that," the doctor said quietly. "And because you did, a little girl still has her father. That matters."
When they got back to the truck, Diesel didn't start the engine right away.
Just sat there, hands on the wheel.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Good. Because Sandstone's making chili, and if we don't get back soon, Rimshot's going to eat all the cornbread."
Emmett almost smiled.
Almost.
The clubhouse smelled like chili and cornbread and coffee.
The same smell it had three nights ago when Emmett collapsed at the door.
But this time, he was walking in under his own power.
Coat that actually fit him.
One of the brothers had dropped it off yesterday.
Boots that were the right size.
War Chief's doing.
The table was set.
Eight brothers, Lily sitting in a chair next to Luther.
Emmett's spot already waiting.
Nobody made a speech.
Nobody said this was symbolic.
They just ate.
Emmett took a bowl, filled it, sat down.
For the first time in 3 weeks, he ate without watching the door, without calculating how fast he'd need to move if someone tried to take the food away, without the timer in his head counting down to when the meal would end.
He just ate.
Across the table, Luther watched him.