Chapter 7 - One Inch
The specialist refused to promise Desmond anything.
Sadi liked her immediately.
Dr. Maya Reynolds ran a spinal rehabilitation program outside Boston and had the bluntness of someone who had spent twenty years disappointing people who arrived expecting miracles.
“Your injury is severe,” she said.
Desmond sat beside the examination table.
“How severe?”
“Severe enough that walking independently may never happen.”
He did not react.
Sadi squeezed his hand.
Dr. Reynolds continued.
“But your original scans and current neurological responses don’t completely support the diagnosis you were given.”
Desmond looked at her.
“You’re saying Brennan lied.”
“I’m saying somebody overstated the certainty of your prognosis.”
“Can I walk?”
“I don’t know.”
He hated that answer.
Sadi knew because he complained about it for the entire drive home.
“I don’t know is not a medical opinion.”
“It literally is.”
“It’s useless.”
“It’s honest.”
Three days later, rehabilitation began.
It was brutal.
Electrical stimulation.
Strength training.
Standing frames.
Balance exercises.
Hours of repetitive movements that seemed to accomplish nothing.
Desmond hated every minute.
Sadi stopped being his nurse.
That mattered.
When therapists worked with him, she stayed away unless he asked.
Their relationship had changed.
She was no longer paid to care.
She simply did.
One evening, he found her in the kitchen attempting to make lasagna.
Smoke poured from the oven.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“The smoke alarm disagrees.”
“I’m experimenting.”
“With arson?”
She glared at him.
He laughed.
Then he noticed flour on her cheek.
“Come here.”
She bent toward him.
He wiped it away with his thumb.
Neither moved afterward.
The kiss this time was slower.
Gentler.
No gunfire.
No kidnapping.
Just them.
Sadi rested her forehead against his.
“I like this version better.”
“Less blood?”
“Significantly.”
He smiled.
Then the smoke alarm screamed.
Sadi swore.
Desmond laughed until his ribs hurt.
For several weeks, life almost became normal.
Patrick was charged.
Rourke accepted a federal deal.
Brennan surrendered his medical license and faced criminal prosecution.
Eleanor remained in Vermont but spoke with Desmond every night.
And Sadi finally moved out of her tiny apartment.
Not into Desmond’s bedroom.
She insisted on her own room.
“You have thirty-two bedrooms,” she told him. “Boundaries are healthy.”
“You sleep in mine four nights a week.”
“Those are unrelated statistics.”
Then came the morning everything changed.
Desmond was strapped into the standing frame.
Dr. Reynolds touched a blunt instrument against his left foot.
“Anything?”
“No.”
Another spot.
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
Again.
Nothing.
Sadi watched from across the room.
Then Reynolds touched near his ankle.
Desmond frowned.
“Wait.”
Everyone froze.
“What?” Reynolds asked.
“Do it again.”
She did.
Desmond stared downward.
“I felt something.”
Sadi stopped breathing.
“What did you feel?”
“Pressure.”
Again.
His eyes widened.
“There.”
Sadi covered her mouth.
Desmond looked at her.
He was afraid to smile.
Afraid hope would punish him.
Dr. Reynolds remained professional.
“That’s encouraging. It does not guarantee functional recovery.”
Desmond nodded.
But Sadi was crying.
“Stop,” he said.
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re visibly crying.”
“Allergies.”
“To neurological improvement?”
“Very rare condition.”
He laughed.
Two weeks later, his left big toe moved.
One inch.
Maybe less.
Nobody would have noticed if Sadi had not been staring directly at it.
“Do that again.”
“What?”
“Your toe.”
“I didn’t—”
It moved.
Desmond stopped speaking.
Sadi dropped to her knees.
“Again.”
His entire body tensed.
Nothing.
“Come on.”
Nothing.
Then—
Movement.
Tiny.
Barely visible.
But deliberate.
Sadi screamed.
Frankie came running with his weapon drawn.
“What happened?”
“His toe!”
Frankie stared.
“His what?”
“His toe moved!”
Frankie slowly lowered the gun.
“I thought somebody was dying.”
“Something moved!”
Desmond was laughing.
Sadi threw her arms around him.
He buried his face against her neck.
That night, however, Desmond became quiet.
Sadi found him outside on the terrace.
“You should be celebrating.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re brooding professionally.”
He looked toward the dark lawn.
“What if that’s all I get?”
“One inch?”
“Yes.”
She sat beside him.
“Then it’s one inch more than yesterday.”
“What if I never walk?”
“Then you don’t.”
He looked at her.
Sadi shrugged.
“And tomorrow we argue about oatmeal, and you terrorize Frankie, and I burn another dinner.”
“You’re staying?”
“Desmond.”
She touched his face.
“I didn’t fall in love with a future version of you.”
The words slipped out.
Both froze.
Sadi’s eyes widened.
“Oh.”
Desmond stared at her.
“That wasn’t how I planned to say that.”
“You planned it?”
“Eventually.”
He pulled her closer.
“I love you too.”
The kiss was interrupted by Frankie clearing his throat.
Sadi groaned.
“You have spectacular timing.”
Frankie did not smile.
“Boss, we have a problem.”
He handed Desmond a phone.
On the screen was a photograph taken less than an hour earlier.
Patrick Gallagher.
May you like
Outside prison.
Free.
