He nods again, and I addPeripheral nerve surgeryto his notes.
"Thank you for your service," I say, to which he offers a small nod of his head. I ask more questions, mostly about timeline and what he remembers doing when he first started physical therapy. There are holes in his memory, which isn't uncommon for somebody who has undergone extensive treatment andphysical therapy. It's hard to remember dates, times, names of exercises, especially when they consist of unfamiliar words.
"We can start with stretches for today while I put together a treatment plan. Does that work for you?"
"I guess so." Peter pushes back from the table. "I've started running again."
My brows knit. "Is that advisable?"
He shrugs. "Sometimes it hurts."
"Where?"
He points to his midsection.
"You might not be ready to run."
"I don't care," he says stubbornly. "I need to do something. And Slim Jim needs the exercise."
"Slim Jim? Like the highly processed, very salty meat stick from the gas station?"
"No."
My next thought, which is totally unacceptable, unprofessional, and impolite isplease tell me that's not your nickname for your dick.
Wow. Isla is rubbing off on me.
I'll take the bait. "Who's Slim Jim?"
"My dog."
"Right," I nod, remembering the big animal I saw in his vehicle. "He was waiting for you in your truck."
It's the first mention of our interaction. Peter eyes me tentatively. "Man's best friend."
A pang of sadness seizes my heart. Peter has more to his story than appears at first glance, but then I suppose most of us do. From the outside, I look like the town's golden girl preparing to marry the town's golden boy.
It's so wrong, it's almost laughable.
"Let's start those stretches, if you're ok with that."
Peter follows me out to the large open space. "If you're going to insist on running"—I frown to let him know I'm not particularly happy with his choice—"let's at least get you properly stretched so we can reduce your pain, and help you avoid injuries elsewhere."
I take him through basic dynamic stretches to warm up the main muscle groups, doing them alongside him. "I like to run too, and I haven't stretched yet today."
"Do you run with somebody?” There’s a gruffness to his voice.
"I usually run alone, in the early morning. I like getting out before the town is awake."
He looks askance at me, head tipping down slightly. "It's not safe for you to run by yourself."
"You're new in town, so you probably don't realize this, but Olive Township is safe. Low crime."
He follows me into the next position, a full-length stretch that requires Peter to follow me onto all fours. I demonstrate for him how to tuck his toes and lift his knees, coming into a full leg extension. He copies me, and from his almost upside down position, says, "Crime doesn't have a zip code, Daisy." He looks at me meaningfully, like he’s determined to drive home his point.
Annoyance flares, especially because he's right. I feel safe here, but bad things have happened. It's been a long time, but Hugo and Vivi's dad was murdered right here in Olive Township, on a road just off the main part of town.
“Pedal your legs,” I instruct.
