Part 8
Vivian looked at Linda.
“Who’s taking over?”
“Dr. Teresa Quinn.”
Linda let her sit with the name for a moment.
“She’s good,” she added. “She and Rusk have worked together.”
Vivian looked toward the elevator.
No apology from Bell. No admission she could carry home and set beside the letter. He had found a way to leave the argument without answering it.
She shifted her bag higher on her lap.
“When do I meet her?”
“She’s scheduled to introduce herself tomorrow.”
“All right.”
Flint leaned against the outside of her wheel as they turned toward therapy.
Linda ran the familiar sequence that morning, but took longer over the measurements. Vivian could feel her checking each response, making certain she could distinguish effort from compensation.
The right ankle moved on four separate attempts during the first hour.
Her left foot gave her clearer information through the supported standing sets.
Near the end, Linda changed the setup for an assessment they had not tried before: how much load the left leg could accept with the frame supporting her safely.
It lasted about twenty seconds.
By the end, Vivian was sweating beneath her thermal shirt, and the muscles around her shoulders had begun to complain. Linda helped her return to the chair and immediately recorded the result.
“Don’t,” Vivian said.
Linda looked up.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“I was going to observe that the follow-up review is going to look different from the one Bell anticipated.”
“That’s how you’re phrasing it?”
“That’s the clinical version.”
Vivian leaned back and wiped her forehead with a towel.
Flint got up from his warm place and came to the mat. He looked at her feet, then at her face.
“He’s been watching those measurements,” Linda said.
“I know.”
“Think he understands?”
“He notices when something’s different.”
Linda studied the dog.
“That answer leaves you a lot of room.”
“I’ve learned from doctors.”
Rusk arrived at eleven and set up in the consultation corner. She reviewed Linda’s updated entries, asked precise questions about testing conditions, and compared the new results to her own examination.
Then she closed the record and faced Vivian.
“I’m going to stay cautious with you.”
“Good.”
“I won’t give you a twelve-month picture and ask you to live toward it. I’ve been wrong before.”
Vivian rested the towel on her lap.
“What I can say is that these are useful findings. Voluntary movement, improved position awareness, longer standing tolerance. They’re associated with continued recovery in the research and in patients I’ve treated. Associated. Not guaranteed.”
“I know the difference.”
“I thought you might.”
Rusk opened her laptop again.
“I’d like to talk about the next three months. Linda and I have discussed some additions.”
They spent forty minutes going through exercises, the order of progressions, monthly appointments, and the measures they would use to decide whether to change the plan. Vivian questioned two items whose purpose she didn’t understand. Rusk brought up the supporting evidence and explained them without seeming offended.
By the time Owen appeared with coffee, Vivian had filled a notebook page.
“How’s it going?” he asked from the edge of the space.
“Well,” Rusk said.
Vivian noticed the word.
Rusk glanced down. Flint had settled beside the table with his face angled toward her computer.
“Your dog’s been watching my screen for twenty minutes.”
“He’s got an interest in electronics,” Owen said. “We haven’t established why.”
Flint looked at him, then returned his attention to the laptop.
Keene’s afternoon meeting took little time. She had already reviewed the reports, approved Bell’s withdrawal, and assigned Quinn to the case.
“Your full treatment schedule is confirmed,” she said. “The follow-up review stays on the calendar. Dr. Rusk’s monthly consultations will be included in the record.”
Vivian nodded.
Keene removed her glasses.
“I also owe you an apology.”
Vivian looked up.
“You should not have learned about a change that significant from a letter delivered at the end of the day. A conversation should have happened first. That failure belongs to the facility, and I’m responsible for the process.”
She held Vivian’s gaze.
“We’ll change it.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else you need from me?”
Vivian glanced at the restored schedule on the desk.
“No. That covers it.”
Owen and Flint were waiting in the corridor.
“Settled?” he asked.
“Schedule confirmed. Quinn taking over. Rusk every month.” She paused. “Keene apologized.”
His eyebrows rose.
“She meant it,” Vivian said.
They rode downstairs together. Flint sat facing the doors, tolerating the elevator’s familiar clunks without moving.
In the lobby, Vivian stopped Owen before he could turn toward the exit.
“After Flint’s retirement, what are you actually going to do?”
He took a moment before answering.
“I’m due for terminal leave eight weeks after that. There are still decisions about whether I stay in any capacity, and what kind.”
“Would they put you back in the field?”
“I don’t know.”
“And if they don’t?”
He looked around the lobby, past Neil’s desk to the corridor they had just left.
“I’m still working out what I’m useful for with this shoulder.”
“Your shoulder isn’t all of you.”
Owen’s gaze returned to her.
“It’s part of the calculation.”
“For the work. Not for you.” She rested a hand on the side guard of her chair. “I’ve had a year and a half to argue that one.”
His jaw moved once, as though he had considered an answer and set it aside.
“All right,” he said quietly.
Flint put his head on Vivian’s knee, bringing the conversation to a practical stop.
The six weeks leading to his official retirement filled with ordinary work. Vivian’s exercises became harder in small increments. Owen’s shoulder gained a few degrees, lost them on a bad day, then gained them again. Snow began collecting in the shaded parts of town.
On a Thursday late in December, Vivian saw Owen’s vehicle pull into the clinic lot and remain there.
She was by the therapy window. He sat behind the wheel for several minutes, with Flint’s ears visible in the passenger-side space, before opening the door.
The dog came in wearing his working harness.
Linda glanced at it and continued setting up the mat.
Owen had explained the retirement paperwork earlier that week. The service record would close. Ownership would transfer to him through the approved adoption process. Flint would no longer be available for assignment.
There were forms for every part of it. Owen had described them with greater difficulty than he used discussing surgery.
Late that morning, Vivian looked out into the corridor and saw him release the first buckle.
Flint stood patiently.
Owen loosened the straps, lifted the harness free, and folded it over his forearm. Without it, the dog looked both broader and strangely less formal.
He shook from his ears to his tail, then looked up.
Owen placed a hand on his head and left it there.
Vivian stayed in the doorway until Owen lowered his hand.
That evening, she remained late after a standing session and a call from Rusk about the afternoon’s measurements. The front desk lights had been dimmed. Someone was pushing a vacuum in the administrative corridor.
When she returned to the therapy wing, Owen was on the bench. Flint lay beside his boots without the harness.
She wheeled into the room and stopped a few feet away.
“How are you doing?”
“Ask me tomorrow.”
“That bad?”
“Don’t know yet.”
She nodded.
Flint got up and crossed to her. This time, he settled his entire head in her lap. She brought both hands to his ears.
Owen watched him for a while.
“I want him to live with you,” he said…
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