“Why?”
“Because physical therapy intends to get you upright.”
His amusement disappeared.
“Standing?”
“With help.”
He looked at his braced arm, then at the frame positioned near the wall.
“I can’t.”
“That is why several trained people will assist you.”
His gaze found me.
The fear in it was unmistakable.
I moved to the side of the bed, stopping at the distance he preferred.
“You don’t have to be fearless,” I said.
“That sounds like something people say before terrible ideas.”
“It probably is.”
The physical therapist arrived with two assistants.
Her name was Priya, and she possessed the calm authority of someone who had heard every objection a frightened patient could invent.
She explained each step.
First, Noah would sit on the edge of the bed.
Then they would wait for the dizziness to settle.
Then he would shift weight onto his left leg while the assistants supported his pelvis and torso.
The goal was not walking.
The goal was three breaths upright.
“That’s all?” Noah asked.
“That’s enough,” Priya said.
They lowered the rail.
I moved away to give them space.
Noah’s eye followed me.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
I stood where he could see me.
