“The battery connections are probably inadequate.”
“No modifications.”
“Marine-grade cable would increase reliability.”
Priya pointed at me. “You are the reason the manufacturer uses tamper seals.”
“I take that personally.”
“You’ll survive.”
Noah’s laugh came out warm and startled.
For the next twenty minutes, he practiced.
He scraped one doorframe, misjudged two turns, and nearly ran over my foot.
By the end, he could navigate the corridor, reverse, rotate in a confined space, and align the chair beside the bed without assistance.
Exhaustion sharpened his breathing, but pride lit his face.
Dr. Whitcomb waited until he was transferred back into bed.
“The latest imaging is encouraging,” she said. “Your pelvis is healing well. The surgical team is satisfied with the repair to your arm. If tomorrow’s mobility assessment goes as expected, we can discharge you the following morning.”
Noah stared at her.
“Discharge?”
“Yes.”
“You mean leave.”
“Yes.”
His gaze found me.
Relief softened his face.
Then fear followed so closely the two were almost indistinguishable.
“That soon?” I asked.
“You’ll have daily nursing visits for the first week. Then we’ll reassess. Physical therapy three times weekly. Cognitive rehabilitation twice weekly. Reid has the full medication schedule and the emergency criteria.”
“Reid has everything,” Noah murmured.
Dr. Whitcomb smiled. “That appears to be true.”
She turned back to him.
“The question is whether you feel ready to continue recovering outside the hospital.”
Noah looked toward the rain-marked window.
“I despise it here.”
“That is not the same as being prepared to leave.”
