Chapter 5: Eleven Steps

By Wednesday he could close his fist all the way.

On Thursday morning I stood at the far end of the sunroom, twelve feet from him, with my arms folded.

"Put the cane down," I said.

"No."

"Then I'm not standing here."

Ansel Rourke gave me the hard stare that had made colonels sit down.

I stared back, because I had worked thirty-hour shifts under attending physicians who were worse.

He set the cane against the wall.

"Walk to me."

"Doctor, I've been walking for forty-three years."

"Then it should be easy."

His mouth twitched, and he took the first step.

His left knee wobbled, and he caught it.

I did not move.

The second step was clean.

The third was slow, and the fourth was slow, and by the sixth his shirt was dark between the shoulders.

"Breathe," I said.

"I'm breathing."

"Out loud."

He let out a long, ragged breath through his teeth and took the seventh step.

The eighth.

The ninth was bad, and his leg folded, and I started forward.

"Don't," he said. "Don't catch me. Stand there."

The tenth step he dragged, and the eleventh he took.

He fell into me.

I caught him with both arms, because that was what bodies did, and the whole warm weight of him came against my chest.

His hand closed around the back of my waist.

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