Chapter 2 - The Man Who Couldn't Walk Had More Feeling Than Anyone Knew
I returned the following afternoon.
I told myself it was because I had made a professional commitment.
That was only partly true.
The truth was that I had spent the entire night thinking about Sebastian's foot.
Not his reputation.
Not the guards.
Not the mansion.
The foot.
A reflex had happened.
A coordinated movement.
Not a random twitch.
I had seen enough injuries to know the difference.
Sebastian was waiting in a private rehabilitation room.
He had cleared the entire floor.
No doctors.
No staff.
Just him and Gabriel.
“You came back,” Sebastian said.
“You paid me.”
“You could have lied.”
“I don't do that.”
He nodded toward a table.
“My scans.”
I looked.
MRI images.
CT scans.
Neurological evaluations.
Everything had been done.
Repeatedly.
The reports were detailed.
But I noticed something.
The original imaging was from twenty years ago.
The newer scans all compared themselves against it.
“Who was your first neurologist?”
“Dr. Elias Monroe.”
“Still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Boston.”
“Call him.”
Sebastian frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I want to ask him about the initial injury.”
“You think he missed something?”
“I think everyone stopped looking at the same point twenty years ago.”
Gabriel's face tightened.
“Everyone except us.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
Sebastian said:
“Call him.”
Gabriel made the call.
While we waited, I examined Sebastian.
I tested muscle tone.
Sensation.
Reflexes.
Temperature response.
Joint position.
Every test gave me something.
Not much.
But enough.
“You can feel this?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“Yes.”
I touched his heel.
He flinched.
“How long?”
“Since the accident.”
I stared.
“That's important.”
“My doctors knew.”
“Did they?”
Sebastian looked at me.
“They knew you had some sensation.”
“But?”
“But nobody knew what to do with it.”
I nodded.
“That's the problem.”
Dr. Monroe arrived by video call.
An elderly face appeared on the tablet.
He saw Sebastian.
Then me.
“What happened?”
“I found someone,” Sebastian said.
Dr. Monroe studied me.
“What kind of someone?”
“A physical therapist.”
The doctor sighed.
“I've reviewed your case.”
“You told me twenty years ago the damage was permanent.”
“I told you the prognosis was extremely poor.”
“You told me I'd never walk.”
“That was based on what we knew.”
Claire.
“You were injured by a blast.”
“Yes.”
“Your spine wasn't severed.”
I looked at Sebastian.
He stared at the screen.
“Then why couldn't I move?”
“Because the swelling and scar tissue compressed the remaining pathways.”
I leaned closer.
“Then the pathways remained?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“We didn't know.”
I looked at Sebastian.
“That's what we need to find out.”
The doctor hesitated.
Then:
“There's something else.”
Sebastian straightened.
“What?”
“Your lower lumbar region was surgically altered.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone operated on you after the accident.”
“I had emergency surgery.”
“Not the surgery I'm talking about.”
Sebastian's face hardened.
“What?”
Dr. Monroe swallowed.
“Your records show an unexplained procedure six months after the bombing.”
Silence.
Sebastian looked at Gabriel.
“Who authorized it?”
The doctor shook his head.
“There is no authorization.”
“Then who did it?”
“I don't know.”
The call ended.
Sebastian stood abruptly.
Or tried to.
His arms tightened around the chair.
Gabriel rushed toward him.
“I've got you.”
Sebastian shoved him away.
“Find the records.”
Gabriel nodded.
He left.
I stared at Sebastian.
“That surgery might explain everything.”
He looked at me.
“Can you fix it?”
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
“I need more information.”
“You'll have it.”
“And I need permission to work with you without being interrupted by armed men.”
He smiled.
“Done.”
“And I won't be blackmailed.”
“Done.”
“And no one touches my son.”
His eyes hardened.
“No one will.”
I nodded.
“Then we have an arrangement.”
He held out his hand.
I shook it.
His fingers were warm.
Steady.
For one second, neither of us moved.
Then I pulled back.
“Tomorrow we start sensory retraining.”
“What does that involve?”
“Pain.”
“I've survived worse.”
“I believe you.”
I left.
The next morning, Sebastian began therapy.
At first he hated every second.
I made him focus on tiny movements.
Temperature.
Pressure.
Position.
Visualization.
His first successful movement was a toe.
Then two.
After three hours, his left ankle shifted slightly.
He stared down.
“Again.”
He tried.
Nothing.
“Again.”
Nothing.
“Relax.”
He glared.
“I've been relaxing for twenty years.”
“No.”
I placed my hand on his knee.
“You've been surviving.”
He stared at my hand.
Then at me.
“What's the difference?”
“Survival means your body is waiting for the next threat.”
“And living?”
“Living means teaching it that it doesn't have to.”
He was quiet.
Then he tried again.
His ankle moved.
His breath caught.
I smiled.
He looked at me as though I had done something impossible.
“We're not there yet.”
“I know.”
“You'll need months.”
“I have months.”
“You'll need patience.”
He laughed.
“That's harder.”
“I know.”
After several sessions, Sebastian began asking questions.
Where I studied.
Why I left my hospital job.
Why I treated people privately.
I avoided the personal questions.
Until one night he found me staring at an overdue bill.
“How much?”
I covered it.
“None of your business.”
“I can help.”
“No.”
“Mia—”
“Claire.”
He corrected himself.
“Claire.”
I looked at him.
“You don't get to buy your way into people's lives.”
“I know.”
He was learning.
Slowly.
Then he said:
“Your divorce.”
I froze.
“What about it?”
“Your ex-husband took your savings.”
“How do you know that?”
“Public records.”
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
I looked away.
“He left me with debt.”
“Why?”
“Because he could.”
Sebastian was silent.
Then:
“What happened to him?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn't want to become someone who destroys people just because I can.”
He looked at me for a long time.
“I wish I'd learned that earlier.”
I studied him.
The city had taught Sebastian to use violence.
Life had taught me to endure.
Somehow, we were meeting somewhere between the two.
Then Gabriel rushed into the room.
“We found the records.”
Sebastian turned.
“Of the surgery?”
“Yes.”
Gabriel placed a file on the table.
“The procedure was performed by a physician named Dr. Victor Hale.”
I opened the file.
The name meant nothing to me.
Sebastian froze.
I looked at him.
“You know him?”
“My father did.”
“Who is he?”
Sebastian's expression darkened.
“The surgeon who was supposed to operate on me the night of the bombing.”
I looked at the records.
The surgery six months later had been performed by the same man.
There was one line at the bottom.
Procedure authorized by order of Marco Lombardi.
Sebastian's father.
My stomach tightened.
“Your father ordered another surgery after you were already recovering.”
Sebastian's voice was quiet.
“Why?”
I turned the page.
There was an incomplete note.
Patient must remain unable to walk.
I looked at Sebastian.
He looked back.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Gabriel said:
“That line changes everything.”
May you like
Because someone had not tried to cure Sebastian.
Someone had deliberately kept him in the wheelchair.
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