Page 73 of After We Fall

Somewhere curling up in the warm den of a panther.

18

“This is unnecessary,” I say to Dr. Isaac Ridding, head physician at the Neurofeedback Center of Colorado.

“What’s unnecessary?” he asks. “The low lighting in the room?”

“No.” The light reflecting off the snowcapped Colorado mountains almost killed me on the twenty-minute ride over here in Luke’s truck. By the time I walked into this low-lit office, I wanted to curl up in a ball in the corner.

“Do you mean that closing the door is unnecessary? Your body language tells me that sound bothers you. But I can reopen the soundproof door and use my normal-range voice if you prefer.”

I slide my eyes to the side. “No, thank you.” Jumping out of my skin when the office phone rang was not one of my prouder moments. And I can’t be sure, but the timbre of this former college football lineman’s deep voice probably has the ability to increase to a powerful volume. Even if he played twenty years ago.

As he sits across the sleek, modern black desk, the doctor’s demeanor is relaxed. His folded hands rest on the wicking fabric of a golf shirt bearing a Denver Broncos logo across his heart. “Then can you explain to me what you think is unnecessary?”

I swallow, wanting to choose my words carefully. Respectfully. And assertively. Luke was right. The man is world-renowned. I’m impressed with his credentials, but I just don’t think my injury warrants this kind of attention. “I have a problem with your treatment plan.”

He nods, his tone calm. “Which part, exactly?”

“I understand you had to do some baseline testing today. I appreciate that you’ll be supervising my recovery. But I think thirty neurofeedback sessions are excessive.”

“You mentioned you’ve had a previous concussion?”

“Yes.”

“One that went untreated?”

“Yes.”

“One that caused you to have migraines on a regular basis for the last fifteen years of your life?”

“Yes.”

“Does that seem excessive to you?”

I blink. Point for the doctor.

He scratches his cheek. “I tell you what. Let’s give it two weeks.”

“Two weeks? But I’m telling you I don’t want this kind of treatment. It seems unnecessary for me.”

He looks down at my file on his desk and murmurs, “I told Mr. Granger it was too soon to see you.”

“What do you mean, too soon?”

“Your accident was Friday. Four days ago. You haven’t had time to really understand how post-traumatic stress can manifest itself with a traumatic brain injury.”

“Please don’t tell me what it’s like to be me.”

He nods again, this time slower, his keen eyes softening, beckoning me. “I would love to hear what it’s like to be you.”

“This is something I will handle on my own.” I will handle this on my own, figure out a way to find Finley, and work toward getting my dream job. And I will handle it on my own because that’s how I accomplish everything.

He smiles. It’s small and doesn’t reach his eyes. Not pitying me. But something else. Something not quite sad and not quite hopeful. “Two weeks. We’ll revisit this in two weeks.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he holds up his hand. “I can’t make you do anything, Miss Reid. Mr. Granger has given me the basics of your background, and it’s clear to me that you are an extremely talented and intelligent woman. He certainly thinks so.”

It takes great restraint not to roll my eyes at the name of the traitor who ignored my protests and brought me here to begin with. The handsome traitor who apparently thinks I’m extremely talented and intelligent.