“Hi, Sue,” I greet her as she stands in the doorway.

“Sleep well?” she asks with a smile.

“Same as usual.”

“Maybe we need to see the doctor and check the levels of your meds.” She crosses the room and opens the curtains. “I’ve got your brother’s SUV as he has a few things to do this morning and can’t take you to your appointment. Okay if I take you instead?”

“Appointment?”

“Physical therapy. You always go on a Tuesday.”

“Every day seems the same to me, Sue.” I shake my head gently. Do I honestly have no idea what day it is? How sad is that?

“Maybe you need to switch that up a little.” She points her glance at me and arches a brow.

“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh and stretch my arms above my head.

“Brush it off all you like. The only reason every day seems to be the same is because you let it,”

she remarks with a joking edge but I’m a little taken aback at her comment. She rarely gives a personal comment like that, as she normally stays neutral with her opinions. It’s not something I haven’t heard before, but it’s the first time for her and coming from someone that isn’t family, someone that sees it from the outside looking in, it touches a nerve. “You got something to say, Sue?”

“Oh, no. Of course not, Mr. King. I merely meant …” She stumbles at her words and I look at her pointedly, almost daring her to continue. After speaking with Lottie last night and the lack of sleep I had due to replaying her voice over and over again in my head, I’m spoiling for an argument. She takes a breath before continuing, “If every day is the same, and you want them to be different, you have to make them different, that’s all. There’s a big wide world out there and staying within these four walls unless you’re forced out, would make anyone bored out of their brain.” She mumbles almost as if she were talking to herself, and there’s an uncertain edge to her tone, probably worried about my reaction.

“You’re right.” I push up on my elbows then use my arms to haul me up until I’m resting against the headboard of my bed. “I know you’re right. But the fight in me has gone. I can’t find it. I’ve tried, but it’s not happening. So, what do I do now?”

“I guess you need something to fight for,” she says with a shrug, and it’s like someone turned the lights on in my head.

After weeks of physical therapy, I’ve gotten past the basic exercises and have started on the more strenuous stuff. I’m working toward standing upright with the help of a frame, and being able to hold at least some of my weight on my own legs. It’s not exactly what I want, but it’s moving in the right direction. Being a stubborn asshole, I refused to be watched by anyone during my sessions, so I had them one on one with the therapist, but now I’ve progressed and we’ve moved to a bigger room with more equipment and we can no longer use it solo.

“You ready for today’s session?” my physical trainer, Dan, asks me with a bounce in his voice.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I mumble. I take in all of the equipment in the new room that we are working in today and I’m pretty impressed. There are only a few others here. All in wheelchairs, but one in particular peaks my interest. “That kid. He’s paralyzed?” He’s young. Nine, maybe ten. He’s all blonde hair and youthful innocence.

“That’s Ben. They didn’t think he would walk again. He has incomplete motor function, but he’s doing pretty well. He’s got the determination of a hungry lion, that one.”

Nine years old and he can’t walk? I thought life had been cruel to me, but this young kid has barely lived yet. I click my chair into use and move forward slowly as to not interrupt. There are two therapists helping him position his wheelchair, which I notice is old and shabby, at the beginning of a small walkway. They clip him into a harness and with their aid, he hauls himself up by his little arms and balances on his wobbly, unbalanced little legs. He’s concentrating so hard that I don’t think he realizes what he’s just achieved. He shows so much sheer determination that I’m in awe. He stands with his whole body tensed, but he’s standing nonetheless. The therapists speak gentle words of encouragement and then he grits his teeth, takes a deep breath and lifts his left leg before dropping it down as if it was made of lead just a few inches in front of him. I watch him with my breath held and my hands clenched tightly together. He repeats his routine, grit teeth, deep breath, step forward, until he completes six steps. The whole room is still and quiet, willing him on with every positive thought that we can muster and his eyes gleam as one of the therapists come up behind him with his wheelchair so he can sit back down and catch his breath. As his bottom touches the seat, Dan whoops and claps behind me and the few others in the room do so too. “You walked, kid!” Dan cheers giving him a thumbs up.

Ben gives Dan a thumbs up and a beaming smile in return. I have tears in my eyes at how proud I am of what he’s just achieved, even though I don’t even know him. Now I feel like an ungrateful bastard. This kid, this young kid hasn’t experienced life yet. He will spend most of his life knowing what it’s like to make the most of every moment. That thought makes me feel grateful for him as well as sad. How can I mope around, full of self-pity and depression, when this young kid is making the most of every second and trying his hardest when he’s given the opportunity?

“You going next?” Ben asks with a smile as he rolls towards me, pushing hard at the wheels of his chair until he’s right beside me. Fuck, his wheelchair isn’t even electric. He’s pushing those great big wheels with his spindly little arms and I can’t help but look at him in disbelief, and awe.

“Nah, buddy. Wouldn’t want to follow up on your awesome performance. You did great,” I say genuinely. After watching him, I feel great pride for this kid.

“Thanks. I did two steps last week, then I got sick for a few days but I wanted to beat my target.”

“What was your target?”

“Five,” he says simply. Five steps? The boy’s target was to take five steps? Something that no child should even have to think about, yet he’s so upbeat about it.

“You did it! You smashed your target.” I hold up my hand for a high five and he smacks it with his, flashing me his contagious smile.

“Yeah. I want to take ten steps next week.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal and I can’t help but wonder how he got so brave.

“I have no doubt you’ll do it.”

“What’s your name?” he asks innocently.

“My name is Spike. You’re Ben, right?”

“Yeah. My mom calls me Benji and I hate it. Makes me sound like a baby.” He screws up his nose and glances over to his mom who’s standing in the corner waiting for him.

“Moms do that,” I chuckle.

“Will you come and watch me next week, Spike?”

“You want me to come and watch you?” I ask with surprise. He barely knows me but he’s so welcoming, so open.

“Yeah, will you?” he asks hopefully.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, champ.” I give him a wink, and we bump fists.

“See ya then. You should really give it a go,” he says, tilting his head toward the walkway he just conquered like a boss. “You can do anything if you put your mind to it.” He smiles at me and gives a small wave before pushing away on his wheels.

“Hey, kid,” I call out after him. “You wanna swap chairs? Ya know, so you don’t wear those arms of yours out?” I feel a sudden protectiveness of this young boy who probably doesn’t even need it but I want to be protective of him all the same. No child should have to struggle to get around. I’d go without all my high tech equipment to make his life easier.

“Nah. Not going to need it for much longer,” he calls out over his shoulder before pushing through the door. His words ring in my ears. Such innocence. Such optimism. Such an inspiration.