“No. But you could have taken breaks. Asked for help. Recognized when you were approaching your limit instead of waiting until you were past it,” her voice stayed even, clinical. “You’re not a failure for having limits, Finn. You’re human. And you’re a human dealing with TBI and PTSD on top of physical injuries. Expecting yourself to function at the same capacity as before your accident isn’t realistic.”
The word “realistic” stung.
We kept going. Two hours of unpacking guilt, traumaresponses, the way my brain had misfired so completely it couldn’t tell present from past. Elena took notes, asked careful questions, reframed things I thought were character failures as trauma responses.
By the time she said, “Let’s stop there for today,” I felt wrung out. Excavated.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Exhausted,” I rubbed my face. “Like I could sleep for a year.”
“Emotional processing takes a lot of energy. This was intense work,” she set her notepad aside. “Go rest. We’ll meet again Wednesday morning.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“I’ll be observing. Watching how you function in your environment, how you interact with family, what your normal rhythms look like.” She smiled slightly. “No formal sessions tomorrow. Just living your life while I observe.”
The prospect didn’t make me feel any better.
I walked back to the lodge, legs heavy, shoulders tight. The sun was warm, but I barely felt it.
Alex was in our room when I got there, laptop open on the desk. She looked up the second I walked in, closing her computer and turning toward me.
“Hey,” she offered me a careful smile. “How was it?”
“Hard,” I sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion settling deeper. “Really hard.”
She was quiet for a moment, watching me. “I’m going to go grab us some lunch from the restaurant.”
I nodded, grateful she wasn’t asking questions—wasn’t hovering.
“Be back in twenty,” she pressed a kiss to the top of my head before heading out.
I meant to stay sitting. Meant to at least take my boots off.
Instead, I slept.
On Tuesday, I was halfway through changing the oil on one of the ATVs in the equipment barn when Elena appeared in the doorway, sunlight behind her.
“Mind if I watch?” Not really a question, but she asked anyway.
I gestured at the ATV with a wrench in my hand. “Nothing exciting. Just maintenance.”
She pulled up an overturned bucket and sat, notepad balanced on her knee.
The work was straightforward—drain old oil, replace filter, refill. Muscle memory from doing this since I was fourteen. But having Elena there made every movement feel deliberate. I wasn’t self-conscious exactly, just aware.
“You explain things while you work,” she said after I’d walked through the filter replacement out loud without meaning to.
“Old habit,” I wiped my hands on a shop rag. “Everything’s a training opportunity.”
I moved to check the hydraulics next—standard inspection Dad had asked me to handle on all four ATVs this week. The first three had been fine. This one felt wrong the second I tested the lift.
Sluggish response—not catastrophic, but not right.
I worked the lever again. Same delay, and the bucket dropped faster than it should when I released pressure.
“Problem?” Elena asked.
