Page 7 of Room 1017

Another knock, and I met this one with yet more silence. I was nothing if not consistent.

I heard the handle turn, and a voice called in, “I hope you’re decent, because I’m coming in.” It was a new voice, smooth and musical. Certainly not one of the doctors or nurses, they just walked straight in after knocking once. This man came in slowly, bringing with him a warm vanilla scent, maybe his shampoo or moisturizer, and it poked at my hunger in an uncomfortable way and made my mouth water.

I remained stubbornly where I was, facing the window. I was exhausted and in pain since they’d unhooked the IV painkillers, and I was in no mood for whatever specialist this was, no matter how delicious he smelled. Instead, I focused on the way I could feel my pulse in the newest incision.

His eyes were on me, I could feel them, but he didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he came around the bed. He rolled the walker to the side and moved to stand in front of me, blocking my view out the window. He dragged a chair closer and sat down, bringing his face right into my sightline.

I blinked a few times, my focus shifting as I took in the sight of him. I’d been fully prepared to growl and gripe like I’d been doing for the past six months. It was the surest way to get people to leave me alone, after all. But the light from outside seemed to give this man a halo, making him look halfway angelic. He was like my own personal angel. No, not mine. Not even a real angel, though he certainly looked the part, and I felt my breath stutter in my lungs.

His blond hair curled over his forehead in an unexpected way, and his eyes were light blue and bright, skin sun-kissed. Even as disconnected as I was, it would be impossible not to be aware of how handsome the man was—and then he smiled, and I felt the first of those concrete walls surrounding me quake all the way down to its foundation.

“There you are,” he said. “My name is Casey, and I’m here to help you walk again.”

4

Casey

Peter’spupilsdilatedashe struggled to focus on me, but when I smiled, he seemed to relax a little. He’d been coiled like a spring when I first walked in, ready for a fight. He had deep circles under his eyes, his skin sallow like he was just waking from a year-long nap. His cheeks were dusted with about a week’s worth of whiskers, and his dark brown hair looked like it hadn’t been washed since before his surgery. His eyes, though, looked sharp, a deep blue.

“You don’t look like a doctor,” he grumbled in accusation, his gaze flitting over my jeans and faded band t-shirt. I’d thought it might help put him at ease to dress down.

“Maybe because I’m not one. Your doctors have done everything to put you back together, a good job of it too, judging by your file, but now it’s my turn. I’m a physical therapist.”

I tried to be subtle about checking Peter over. He was already in a delicate state—I didn’t just mean his physical health—and I had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate me eyeing him over to measure where we were starting from, but I had to decide how to approach him. Was he the type to whine and cry and feel sorry for himself, or maybe smile and pretend there was nothing wrong? No, I doubted he was that one. Maybe he would curse and take a swing at me. It was impossible to tell at the first meeting.

“So, you’re going to make me do some exercise, and then I’ll be able to walk again?” He seemed skeptical, but he wouldn’t be the first.

“Technically, you can already walk. It probably hurts, though, right? Your file mentioned nerve damage.”

His gaze shuttered, and he turned to look up at the ceiling. Right then, he was the type to pretend the pain didn’t exist. Or maybe he hoped if he didn’t talk about it, it would just go away on its own.

If I hadn’t already seen his date of birth in his chart, I would’ve guessed he was older. There was a weariness to him that added years to his appearance. I bet he’d be gorgeous when he smiled.

“Physical therapy isn’t a wonder drug, but the goal is to help strengthen your muscles, regain your mobility and balance, so that when you move, you can do it more easily than you are now.” I was always careful not to make promises I couldn’t keep. I wasn’t a miracle worker, I couldn’t perform magic. “Can you tell me your pain level on a scale of one to ten?”

He sighed, stubborn as hell. “That seems like a really subjective way to measure pain. One person’s one might be someone else’s ten. It’s all about their tolerance.”

I hummed, not disagreeing with him. “Sure, but it’ll give us a starting point. Then when I ask you the same question next week, you can compare it to how you answered me today.”

His eyes flicked back once, twice. Finally, he said, “It depends on what I’m doing. Just sitting here, it might be a three, I guess. But when I move, it flares up to maybe a seven or an eight.”

“Good. And is it sharp or dull?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw as he gritted his teeth, laser focused on a point above him. Oh, he really hated talking about this. “Dull now, but when I try to walk, it’s like being struck by lightning. Makes it hard to do just about anything.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” I said with a light teasing tone. He rewarded me with a rough chuckle, a little scratchy, like he hadn’t laughed in a while, and for just one second, I allowed myself to feel pride in having drawn it out of him. Just one second before I reminded myself to keep my distance and get back to work.

“I see someone has brought a walker in for you. That’s perfect, saves me the trouble from having to wrangle one.” When I mentioned the walker, his lips took a sharp dip, his brow creasing into a deep scowl. I tried to brush past his attitude. “How about we start small. Should we try sitting up?”

He was going to fight me on it, I could tell, so I quickly offered a shortcut. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll even raise the bed up a bit to give you a head start. Just don’t tell my other patients or they’ll all expect special treatment.”

Peter hesitated, and I saw my opening. I was halfway to a small win. He sucked his lower lip in between his teeth, then glanced at me, almost embarrassed. I leaned in and propped my elbows on the edge of the bed. “It’s okay to admit this is hard. What you went through has already been a huge feat. I won’t ever judge you for struggling with this. But Peter, the doctors need to see you getting out of this bed before they’ll let you go home.” Nobody wanted to stay in the hospital. No privacy, the beds weren’t comfortable, and the food… Actually, I didn’t mind the food. It got a bad rap.

Finally, Peter nodded. “Okay, I’ll try, but no laughing or I’m outta here,” he said, with a lightness to his tone. Was he trying to make a joke? I rewarded him with a bright smile, and I saw the corner of his lips twitch as he struggled to maintain his gruff persona.

“Ready?” I asked, hand on the bed control. He braced himself, and when he nodded, I started to lift the head of the bed. So far so good, he seemed to be handling the movement okay.

When I was about halfway, I stopped and wheeled the walker closer. “Okay, now I’m just going to put my arm around your shoulders, okay? We’ll see if we can get you sitting up.” When I set my hand on his forearm, though, he flinched. I quickly jerked my hand back. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

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