Grace Sisters’ Hospital
Boston—two hours later
Johnny Givens struggled to lift his head.
“Are you getting out of bed or what?” demanded the woman.
“Yeah. I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
He sat upright. Blood rushed from his head and he felt dizzy.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Your therapist.”
“Right.”
“The wheelchair is ready.”
“I still have an IV.”
“Take it with you.”
“How?”
The therapist reached up and unhooked the bag of fluid, then dropped it in his lap.
“My legs,” said Johnny. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have legs. Use your arms.”
He edged toward the side of the bed.
“I have to look in on another patient,” said the therapist. “I’ll be back.”
She walked from the room. Johnny took a deep breath, then pushed himself toward the chair parked next to the bed. His arms felt stiff, foreign. It was incredibly difficult to move.
Was this for real? Did the bitch even know he hadn’t been out of bed since he got here?
Damn.
He flattened the palms of his hands against the mattress and slid a few more inches.
Why the hell am I being tortured like this?
Outside at the nurse’s station, Louis Massina stood with folded arms, watching the monitor playing the video from Johnny Givens’s room. He could see the sweat rolling down the crippled man’s temple.
“You’re really making him work,” Massina told the therapist.
“He’s going to work a lot harder than this.”
Massina nodded. “I have a meeting. I’ll look in on him tomorrow.”