Ryder hissed a breath out through his teeth. "God... damn it."
"I know," she said. Her voice was closer now. "The rush is normal. Let the vessels adjust. Five seconds."
She stepped between his legs. She placed a gait belt—a thick canvas strap—around his waist and buckled it tight.
"Okay," she said. "I'm going to block your bad knee with my knees. You are going to grab my shoulders—not my neck, my shoulders. On three, we pivot to the chair."
She moved in.
Suddenly, she was everywhere.
Her knees clamped against his cast. Her face was inches from his. He could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. He could smell the coffee on her breath.
"Grab on," she ordered.
Ryder reached up with his good arm. He gripped her shoulder. His hand felt huge and clumsy against her frame.
"Where do I put the other hand?" he asked, gesturing with his immobilized arm.
"Just... tuck it against your chest. Don't pull on me."
She grabbed the belt at his waist.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Too bad. One. Two. Three. UP."
She pulled. He pushed off his good leg.
He rose.
For a split second, he was standing. He was upright. The world corrected itself.
Then, he put a fraction of weight on the left leg.
The pain didn't just spike; it exploded. It was a blinding, white-hot supernova that erased the room, erased Elena, erased everything but the screaming need tostop.
His good knee buckled.
"I'm going down!" he gasped.
"I've got you!"
Elena didn't let go. She stepped in, driving her body against his to brace him. She locked her arms around the belt.
They slammed together.
Ryder’s chest hit hers. His chin hooked over her shoulder. He was dead weight, hanging off her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
He was shaking violently. Sweat soaked his shirt.
"Hold it," Elena grunted, straining under his weight. "Find your balance, Ryder. Use the right leg. Stand up."
Ryder fought the black spots in his vision. He dug his right heel into the floor. He pushed.
He stabilized.
