Chapter 3

When I opened my eyes, Quinton was standing by the bed with a glass of milk.

"It's just soft-tissue bruising. Nothing serious."

My hand went for my phone on reflex, and found nothing.

"Give me my phone."

Quinton looked away.

"Lena thinks we should cut off your contact with the outside for a while. You keep going to Dr. Matthews for painkillers, and you're getting dependent."

Lena walked in with her clipboard.

"Dr. Matthews's conservative approach isn't right for the stage you're at now."

"To keep it from interfering with your recovery, I deleted her number."

Quinton held out the milk.

"Drink it. And stop looking at her like that."

I didn't take it.

His patience ran out, and he set the glass back on the table.

"The day you walk like a normal person is the day you get your phone back."

I didn't beg him. There was nothing left in my eyes but a dull blankness.

My stare made Quinton uneasy. He turned and picked up his car keys.

"I'm taking you somewhere in a bit."

Half an hour later, he drove me to the foot of an abandoned overpass on the edge of town.

The steps were high and steep, the concrete edges cracked and crumbling.

My feet locked in place.

Three years ago, it was on this overpass, reaching to catch Quinton when he nearly missed his footing, that I shoved him aside and rolled down dozens of steps myself. Both legs shattered in multiple places, and I was left with a terror of stairs that never went away.

From that day on, I never went downstairs on my own again.

Quinton gripped my shoulders and pushed me toward the edge of the steps.

"Facing your fear is the only way to recover your ability to walk."

I clung to the iron railing with everything I had.

"Quinton, don't."

Lena stood behind him and flipped open her clipboard.

"Carol, the muscle memory has to be rebuilt. You have to trust Quinton. He's helping you."

Quinton's palm bore down harder.

I was pushed to the top of the steps, my support gone, both legs trembling as if they'd give out.

"I'm going to fall and die."

Something shifted in Quinton's eyes.

Lena said in a low voice, "That's her exaggerating the fear. You can't let her lead you around."

He shut his eyes for a moment, and his voice went hard.

"Carol, I'm exhausted."

I froze.

Quinton looked at me, his voice full of weariness.

"I want to turn you back into the girl who could run and jump. Can't you spare a little pity for me too?"

I stopped struggling and let go of the railing.

Lena took his arm.

"Quinton, step back a bit. Don't give her any signals with your eyes. Desensitization is a cocoon you have to break out of."

They withdrew to a dozen meters away.

Under the overpass, there was only me, facing that long flight of steps.

Bracing on the concrete railing, I lifted my right leg, the one full of fractures, and took the first step.

A splitting pain crawled up my spine and into my skull.

I bit down on my lip and didn't cry out.

In three hours, I climbed four flights of steps. My knees scraped open on the concrete, blood and dust smearing into my dress.

Every time I forced myself up, I could hear a faint clicking inside my bones.

Quinton stood off in the distance for a long time. Partway through he took a call and turned his back.

Lena kept scribbling in her clipboard, glancing up at me now and then, a smug look in her eyes.

I could hear my own breathing, very faint.

So it turned out they didn't want me healthy.

They wanted me to stop being a burden.

By dusk, I finally reached the top of the overpass.

Quinton came up, saw me drenched in sweat, and his brow furrowed deep.

He handed me a tissue.

"Wipe your face. See? You did it after all, didn't you?"

I took the tissue with a shaking hand, and inside, my heart went cold, inch by inch.