Page 34 of Life Or Death

That he wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

He held my hand and counted with me, and when I woke up again the next morning, he was gone, but the scent of his cologne lingered in the air.

It became a routine of sorts, and he hasn’t missed a night in two weeks. But today was the first time I woke and found myself wishing he hadn’t left. I don’t know what to make of that. It’s not like we even talk when he’s here—other than the counting. There’s just something about his presence that soothes me, and I’m terrified that I’m becoming dependent on him.

My thoughts scatter when the door swings open and Sandy walks in, pushing a walker ahead of her. My physical therapist, Marcus, trails behind, sporting the same encouraging smile he always does.

“Today’s the day,” Sandy announces, parking the walker at the foot of my bed.

I stare at it, my stomach dropping. I agreed to resume therapy three days ago, mostly because Sandy wouldn’t stop hounding me about it. She said the longer I waited, the harder it would be, so I caved. But the sight of the walker has me regretting that choice. Today I’m supposed to take my first steps, and the thought alone makes my pulse spike.

“Let’s get you positioned,” Marcus says, moving to the side of the bed. “Same as last time. Edge of the mattress, feet flat on the floor.”

Sandy helps him adjust the bed, lowering it so my feet can reach the ground. They work in tandem, Sandy on one side and Marcus on the other, guiding me through the stretching exercises we’ve been doing for weeks. Each movement sends a dull ache radiating through my legs, but I grit my teeth and push through.

“Good,” Marcus says, his voice steady. “Now, we’re going to help you sit up.”

Sandy’s hand finds the small of my back, supporting me as I shift my weight forward. My legs dangle off the edge of the bed, and I feel the familiar pull of tight skin across my calves. The sensation makes my eyes water, but I blink the tears away.

“Deep breath,” Sandy murmurs.

I inhale slowly, filling my lungs, and exhale through my mouth. Marcus brings the walker over, positioning it in front of me.

“Okay, Jess. On the count of three.”

I nod, my fingers gripping the edge of the mattress.

“One.”

My palms are already slick with sweat.

“Two.”

My heart hammers against my ribs.

“Three.”

They help me stand, and the throbbing is instant. I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to taste blood. Fuck, it hurts.

“Good,” Marcus says. “You’re doing great. Take your time.”

Sweat clings to my brow, dripping down my temples. My hospital gown shifts with the movement, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the angry, mottled skin of my legs. I don’t look down. If I see them right now, I’ll crumble.

I grip the walker’s handles, my knuckles turning white.

“One step at a time,” Marcus encourages.

I shuffle forward, dragging my right foot. The pain is excruciating, but I take another step. Then another. Each movement is slow and deliberate, and my body screams in protest. I’m so fully immersed in the task—counting my breaths, focusing on the rhythm of my steps—that I don’t hear the door open.

“Holy shit, you’re walking.”

My head lifts in a flash, and my eyes lock on Lucifer, who stands in the doorway, his dark eyes wide and fixed on my legs. My cheeks instantly flush because my hospital gown has ridden up, baring my raw, puckered skin and the angry red lines where the healthy tissue meets the scarred.

I feel exposed.

Naked.

All my insecurities rise to the surface, making it hard to breathe. My legs threaten to buckle, and my grip on the walker tightens.