“Do you?” Hansen asked, pinning his gaze on me. I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t even face him, and I felt myself almost cowering as he continued to speak. “Because I don't think you really understand what I'm saying. I will not be the person to break that news to your family if that ever happened to you. So I’m gonna say this now and it’s the last thing I’m going to say about it, but you better stop acting like the world has ended for you, Butler, because this isnothingcompared to what could have been.”
I didn't say anything to this, because I wasn't really sure what to say. Hansen was right, just like he usually was, and while I couldn't yet admit it out loud, I knew the arguing would do no good. He was right and I was wrong and that's all there was to it.
“I get it,” I said again, and this time when I looked at him, I could tell he believed me. Mostly.
“Good,” he muttered. That's what I want to hear.”
Hansen pulled into the clinic parking lot and helped me out of his truck, grabbing the stupid crutches from the back to hand them to me. With a groan, I hobbled after him across the lot and into the doctor’s clinic, plodding along like an idiot while my best friend stopped patiently to wait for me. I hated myself for being such a hinderance to him, but if he was ready and willing to do it, who was I to stop him?
“I owe you for this,” I muttered, passing through the entry of the open door he held for me.
“You do owe me for this,” he whispered back, helping me sit down in one of the waiting-room seats. “My wedding.”
“I know, I know.” Setting my crutches aside, I let Hansen walk up to the desk and check me in. Last week had been my first physical therapy appointment, and while I wasn’t the one who made the appointments (Hansen was, actually, and he claimed it was because he knew I wouldn’t), I just went along for the ride and did what the doctor wanted me to do. Whatever helped me get back to work sooner. Today I had to follow up with the orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Hammond.
“Did PT help much last week?” Hansen asked, sitting in an empty chair next to me. He picked up an outdoor magazine and flipped through it, not particularly interested.
“It was sorer overnight, but a bit better the next day,” I told him, adjusting in the hard, metal chair. What kind of doctor’s clinic thought it was a good idea to have such shitty seating options? Weren’t most of their patients already in pain?
“Mr. Butler?” the receptionist behind the desk called, spotting me. “Dr. Hammond is ready for you.”
“VIP treatment,” Hansen said with a wink, helping me scramble to my feet. “I’ll wait for you here, Butler.”
“Don’t wait out here, you ass,” I grumbled. “Come with me.” Scowling, I followed the nurse back into the patient room. She took my vitals and asked me how the pain was, and a few minutes later the doctor joined us. He held out his hand to me to shake, and then to Hansen.
“How are you feeling, Korbin?” he asked, sitting down on a stool across from me. “You look good.”
I cleared my throat and crossed my arms over my chest, wondering if I really had to tell him about it.
“I feel like my knee hurts,” I said, and Hansen glanced at me, no doubt trying to remind me of the conversation we’d just had in his truck. “But I know that you can help me get better,” I added quickly. “So, tell me all you know, doc.”
“Your x-rays from the other day look good,” Dr. Hammond said, getting up from his stool to illuminate the x-rays on the glow screen. “It hasn’t been much time, but I’m confident that as long as you follow your post-operation instructions and start physical therapy, you’ll come through this just fine.”
“Physical therapy?” I repeated. “How often do I have to go?”
“Every week, to get the full benefit.” Leaning over the counter, Dr. Hammond scribbled a number on the back of a sheet of paper, then signed the front of it. “This is a prescription for the therapy. Just take it in and give it to them and we’ll send your diagnosis so they know what they’re working with.”
“Great,” I said, hoping the extra pep in my voice wouldn’t be mistaken for sarcasm, because it was. “And how long do I have to do this?”
“A few weeks to a few months, depending on your healing speed,” he said, leaning up against the counter behind him. “And since you’re a firefighter it could be even longer, considering that you need more movement and ability than the average person.”
“But it will help?” I asked, staring down at the paper in front of me. Dr. Hammond nodded, arms folded over his broad chest.
“I believe so. It’s proven beneficial in many circumstances.”
“Thanks, doc,” Hansen said, reaching out to shake the surgeon’s hand like a good father would do at their six-year-old’s doctor’s appointment. “I’ll get him in.”
“He’ll get me in,” I repeated, also reaching out to shake the doctor’s hand. “Thanks.”
It took longer than usual to get back to the truck. The walk in on my bad leg had winded me, and by the time we were finished at the clinic and heading back to the truck, my knee was screaming with the sort of pain I never thought a simple knee fracture could do.
“Are you doing alright?” Tate asked, tossing the crutches into the bed of the truck for me. “You look like you’re about to hurl.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m going to be pissed if you throw up in my truck.”
“Why? The puke color and smell would improve this beast.”
