Hammer marked the pressure point using a white pencil.
“Ten minutes,” he said.
It took forty.
He eventually returned from the hospital maintenance shop carrying a fine file and a replacement grip support. Black metal dust covered his knuckles.
Dr. Patel inspected the new component, installed it, and tightened the last fastener.
Emma stood between the parallel bars.
Her prosthetic knee locked.
She lowered her weight onto the new crutches.
Nothing clicked.
Emma shifted forward.
The scarred blue steel remained completely silent beneath her palms.
For the first time that morning, her shoulders relaxed.
One step.
Then another.
At the far side of the room waited the practice staircase she had originally planned to climb on the morning Hammer broke her damaged crutch.
Fourteen shallow steps led to a small platform and then descended on the opposite side.
Emma stopped at the bottom.
Her therapist spoke quietly.
“You don’t have to do this today.”
“I was supposed to do it Tuesday.”
“Tuesday changed.”
Emma looked toward Hammer.
“Did you test these on stairs?”
“Loaded them to three times your body weight.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Hammer rubbed his beard.
“Boone tried them.”
Boone raised both hands.
“Three steps. I have a bad knee.”
Emma smiled.
Then she began climbing.
The first step was awkward.
The rubber tips landed unevenly, and Emma corrected their position.
The second step was better.
By the fifth, Mother was quietly crying behind me.
By the eighth, my own hands had started trembling.
Hammer stood near the door with his arms folded, watching the crutches instead of watching Emma’s face.
At step eleven, Emma’s prosthetic knee failed to lock.
Her body dropped.
The left crutch struck the edge of the stair with a sharp metallic sound that instantly pulled everyone in the room back to the highway accident.
Metal struck concrete.
Emma gasped.
Hammer moved one step forward.
Then forced himself to stop.
The therapist caught Emma using the safety belt, but most of Emma’s weight landed directly on the left crutch.
It held.
The midnight-blue brace flexed.
Then returned to position.
Emma stared down at it.
Hammer’s scarred hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
“You expected it to break,” she said.
“No.”
“You looked like you did.”
“Expected everything to.”
Emma steadied herself.
Then she climbed the remaining steps.
When she reached the platform, she turned around.
Her face was flushed, sweat darkened the hair near her forehead, and she looked exhausted, furious, and more alive than I had seen her in months.
She lifted the left crutch.
“This one stays.”
Hammer nodded.
“So does the other one.”
Another nod.
“And you stop sitting behind vending machines.”
“Done.”
“If you want to know whether I walked out, ask me.”
Hammer’s jaw tightened.
“All right.”
“Say it.”
“What?”
“Ask.”