Part 5
Vivian held her breath until the elevator doors closed behind her.
Then she let it out, all the way, and pressed the button for the ground floor.
Owen met her outside beside Warren’s van. Flint sat close to her chair while she described the meeting. The sun had reached the ridge but not the parking lot; the cold came through her gloves when she rested her hands on the rims.
“Thirty days gets an independent opinion on paper,” Owen said.
“And Bell knows the file’s being read.”
“Useful development.”
She looked at him.
“Why bother? You met me Thursday.”
He glanced at Flint.
“I’d seen enough.”
“From the lobby?”
“From him.” Owen rested a hand on the dog’s head. “His assessments are usually sound.”
“Usually?”
“He has blind spots involving unattended lunches.”
Flint looked up at his name and thumped his tail against the pavement.
Vivian almost smiled.
The next few days brought no grand change in the clinic. The coffee remained poor. The elevator still made an alarming pause between floors. Neil continued greeting her as if she were a long-lost relative rather than a patient who had been there yesterday.
Bell passed her on Tuesday without stopping.
Linda said nothing about Keene’s meeting. On Wednesday, she added time to the supported standing work.
“My legs are shaking,” Vivian told her.
“I can see that.”
“Should we stop?”
“Not yet. Your position’s still good.”
Flint learned the building in his own way. He left extra room for Arthur, who was no longer afraid of him but still preferred warning before anything large approached his new knee. He slept through the vending machine’s compressor once he had decided it was harmless. He chose the warm patch beneath the therapy windows whenever Owen gave him leave to settle.
If Vivian changed position, his head came up.
Sometimes he stayed across the room. Sometimes he lay beside Owen during shoulder work. She could always locate him without searching for long.
On Wednesday afternoon, she stayed after her scheduled session to complete a standing-frame routine Linda had cleared her to do independently. The wing was nearly empty. Owen had gone to the administrative offices, and a staff member was finishing paperwork near the far desk.
Vivian checked the brakes, the supports, and the placement of her feet. She had done the sequence often enough to know exactly where her hands belonged.
The first two supported rises were familiar. Her arms supplied much of the effort. Her left leg offered more than the right. She held, lowered, rested.
On the third, she counted thirty seconds.
On the fourth, she felt the sole of her left foot.
She almost lost count.
There had been traces before: a sense of position, an uncertain impression that vanished if she concentrated too hard. This was pressure distributed beneath the shoe. Heel. Outside edge. The front of the foot.
She stared at the frame’s adjustment pin and kept breathing.
Forty-one.
Forty-two.
Forty-three.
Then the sensation diminished.
She lowered herself, returned to her chair, and sat with both hands resting open on her thighs. Her arms trembled from holding longer than planned.
Flint came through the doorway.
He approached, sat in front of her, and placed his chin on her knee.
“I felt that,” she whispered.
His ears moved.
“Not a guess. I felt it.”
She rubbed one ear between her fingers. Outside, a delivery truck backed toward the kitchen entrance, its warning tone muffled by the windows.
“Don’t make a big thing of it,” she told him. “I have to know it’ll happen again.”
He gave a low sound and let his jaw settle more heavily.
Owen came back a few minutes later. He looked at the frame, then her hands, then Flint.
“Ready to call it?”
“For today.”
He gave Flint a small signal. The dog stood but pressed his nose to her palm before going.
Vivian kept that hand open until they reached the door.
Brent arrived the following morning while Linda was working with Vivian on the mat.
There were other patients in the room: Arthur with his band, a teenager in a neck brace, two men at the upper-body stations. Owen was in the smaller treatment room off the main wing, with Flint beside him.
Brent walked to the cable machines and set down his bag harder than necessary.
For several minutes, he exercised. Then he began talking to one of the men near the window.
“Whole review’s a waste. Keene lets one complaint tie everybody up.”
Linda placed a hand on Vivian’s shoulder.
“Stay with me,” she said quietly.
The man answered too softly for Vivian to hear.
Brent did not.
“Bell knows what he’s doing. Now some outsider gets called in because she doesn’t like the answer.”
Vivian planted her palms and began the next movement.
“This place has been different ever since the wheelchair showed up.”
Linda looked over.
“That’s your warning, Brent. Stop.”
“Private conversation.”
“Then lower it enough to keep it private.”
He muttered something and turned away.
The remarks continued in fragments. Special treatment. Complaints. A dog where a dog had no business being.
Vivian stopped trying to separate the words. Linda counted. She followed the count.
The smaller room’s door opened.
Flint stood in the doorway, ears forward. Owen appeared behind him and surveyed the room.
The dog looked from Brent to Vivian. Owen gave a quiet direction, and Flint moved to an open place between the mat and the cable stations. He sat, leaving the walking route clear.
Owen took the bench by the door.
Neither of them addressed Brent.
The teenager’s therapist resumed speaking. Arthur picked up his band. Linda restarted the count from where they had stopped.
Brent’s conversation ended.
He lasted another twelve minutes before collecting his bag.
On his way out, he stopped beside Vivian’s mat.
“You think this gets you anywhere?”
She lifted her head.
“Your Navy friend makes calls, you get the director involved, everybody jumps. And you’re still in that chair.”
Linda stood straighter.
Vivian answered before she could speak.
“Yes. I am.”
Brent’s expression faltered.
“I’ll leave in it today. I’ll come back in it tomorrow. You’ll come back with your brace. We’ll both have work to do.”
She held his eyes.
“Your back doesn’t improve when you talk about my legs.”
Brent’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.
For a moment, Vivian thought he might try again. Instead, he looked toward the door and walked out.
Arthur cleared his throat.
“Well, then.”
Linda put a hand beside Vivian’s on the mat.
“Ready?”
Vivian nodded.
They resumed. Her pulse gradually slowed. She shifted through the exercise, listening, pressing, counting.
The pressure in her left foot returned.
She kept her gaze on the mat. This time she was not going to let herself lose the count.
Forty.
Forty-one.
“Vivian.”
Linda had stopped.
“What?”
“Look at your right foot.”
The toes had drawn slightly against the mat. A small tendon stood out along the top, and her ankle moved a fraction under its own effort…
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