Page 25 of Obeying

This is what a good day feels like. I'd almost forgotten.

In the afternoon, I'm with Walter.

He's having a good day, putting real weight on both legs, his grip on the walker steady and his steps more even than they've been all week. I'm walking beside him, one hand near his elbow, coaching his pace.

"Slow and steady, Walter. You're doing great."

"I know I'm doing great. I don't need you to tell me."

"Then I'll stop."

"Don't you dare."

We make it halfway down the hall, and he's focused, really working, but then he glances sideways at me like he's just remembered I'm here.

"The couple in 4B were going at it again this morning."

"Walter."

"She brought him the wrong brand of pudding. He said she never listens. I give them six months."

"You're supposed to be focusing on your recovery, not eavesdropping on other patients."

"Doc, I've been stuck in this ward for two weeks. Eavesdropping is my recovery."

I shake my head but I'm smiling. "Let's just focus on getting you better, okay? You have a mild PE. We have to get that fixed. One more lap."

"Fine. But only because you asked nicely."

We turn at the end of the hall and start back. He's come so far since that first day when he wouldn't even stand for the physical therapist. I'm going to miss him when he's discharged.

"You know," he says, "you're the only doctor in this place who doesn't talk to me like I'm already dead."

"That's because you're not dead, Walter, you're just dramatic."

"I'm an old man with a new hip. I'm allowed to be dramatic."

"You were dramatic before the hip."

He huffs. "My daughter says the same thing." I smile secretly. I was waiting for the comparison. He takes another step, then another, his pace confident. "When am I getting out of here, Doc? I've got a garden that's probably dead by now."

"A few more days. If your PT goes well and your labs stay clean."

"My PT is going well. You're looking at it."

"I know. I'm proud of you."

He doesn't say anything to that, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and I count that as a win.

We're midway through his second lap when the doors bang open.

The sound is loud enough that Walter flinches. I turn around, and my body knows before my brain does. Cold washes through me, sudden and brutal, and my teeth chatter.

Miguel is standing in the doorway.

He looks exactly the way I remember: well-dressed, hair slicked back, jaw set, eyes locked on me like nobody else in this room exists.

Weeks ago, he punched a hole through our bedroom door because he said dinner was too cold when he got home. I stood there and watched the debris fall and thought, this is it. This is the night it stops being the door. So, I finally had enough. I packed as much as I could while he was at work the next day, and I left, hoping to never see him again.