Chapter 3 - THE PAIN THAT SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN THERE
Dr. Julian Mercer arrived that afternoon.
He was the rehabilitation specialist who had supervised my treatment since the attack.
A calm man in his fifties, he had learned to ignore my temper.
He examined my legs, tested sensation, and asked detailed questions about the spasms.
Faith stood near the door, taking notes.
I glared at her.
“Why are you writing everything down?”
“Because somebody should remember what you tell the doctor.”
Mercer smiled faintly.
“She's not wrong.”
I muttered something unpleasant.
Faith continued writing.
The examination lasted nearly an hour.
When Mercer finished, he sat across from me.
“Dominic, we need updated imaging and a neurological assessment.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because your symptoms have changed.”
“Does that mean I can walk?”
He hesitated.
“I can't promise that.”
I looked away.
Hope was a dangerous thing.
I had learned that during the first month after the attack.
Every small improvement had felt like a miracle.
Every setback had destroyed me.
Mercer continued.
“Pain and spasms don't necessarily mean useful motor function is returning. But they do mean we should reassess your condition.”
Faith nodded.
“That's what I thought.”
I turned toward her.
“Are you a doctor now?”
“No.”
“Then stop agreeing with him.”
She folded her arms.
“Fine. I'll disagree with him if you'd prefer.”
Mercer laughed.
I stared at both of them.
For six months, my medical appointments had felt like funerals.
May you like
That afternoon, for the first time, someone laughed.
And strangely, I didn't want it to stop.
