“No lifting.”
“And?”
“No competitive fencing.”
“No reaching overhead.”
“That too.”
The next appointment was with Joel, the outpatient rehabilitation therapist.
His office overlooked a courtyard rather than the ward, which seemed to help. Noah transferred into a standard chair and placed the powered one beside the wall.
Joel introduced himself, reviewed the surgical reports, and asked what Noah wanted most from therapy.
“To walk to the bathroom without planning a military operation.”
Joel smiled.
“Good. Specific and achievable.”
“And work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Marine electrical systems.”
“Fine motor control, strength, balance, endurance, divided attention.”
Noah looked displeased.
“That sounds like a list of things I don’t have.”
“It is a list of things we train.”
Joel asked me to wait outside during part of the assessment.
Noah’s hand found mine.
“He stays.”
Joel paused.
“I usually prefer to observe patients independently at first.”
“I know.”
Noah’s voice remained calm.
“He doesn’t answer for me. He stays anyway.”
The statement carried more confidence than he had shown at any appointment.
Joel nodded.
“All right.”
Noah released my hand only after I sat beside him.
