"How long?"
"Until you're cleared for operations? Three months minimum. Maybe four depending on how the arm heals." She made a note on her clipboard. "I know that's not what you want to hear. But it's reality. You push too hard, too fast, you'll set yourself back. Maybe permanently."
Three to four months. Logan had heard that timeline before. Had accepted it intellectually. But hearing it again felt like a gut punch. Three to four months of watching his team operate without him. Of sitting on the sidelines while they deployed. Of being useless.
"I can handle four months," he said.
"You can if you're smart about it. That means following the program. Doing the exercises. Getting enough sleep." Martinez gave him a pointed look. "Are you sleeping?"
"Some."
"How much is some?"
"Four hours. Maybe five."
"That's not enough. Your body heals when you sleep. You're not giving it the time it needs to repair." She crossed her arms. "Are you talking to the therapist about the insomnia?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And she gave me some techniques. Breathing exercises. Meditation. Said I should try them before resorting to sleep meds."
"Are you trying them?"
Logan didn't answer. Because the truth was he'd tried them twice and given up when they didn't work immediately. Meditation required sitting still and when he sat still his mind went to places he didn't want it to go. Back to the cell. Back to Nazari's voice. Back to the certainty that nobody was coming.
"Try harder," Martinez said. "Sleep is part of the recovery protocol. You can't heal without it."
She put him through another thirty minutes of exercises. Leg strengthening. Arm mobility. Core stabilization. Each movement carefully monitored. Each rep counted. By the time she called it, Logan was drenched in sweat and his whole body was shaking from exertion.
"Good session," Martinez said. "You're getting stronger. I can see the improvement week over week. Just don't get ahead of yourself."
Bulldog was waiting in the lobby when Logan finished. He took one look at Logan's face and handed him a protein bar without comment. They walked back to the truck in silence.
"You look like hell," Bulldog said once they were driving.
"Feel worse."
"PT kicking your ass?"
"PT's fine. It's everything else." Logan leaned his head back against the seat. "Can't sleep. Can't focus. Every time I close myeyes I'm back in that cell or I'm watching Mara walk away. It's exhausting."
"You talk to the doc about it?"
"Yeah. She wants me to meditate."
Bulldog snorted. "You? Meditate? That'll last about five seconds."
"That's what I figured."
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Then Bulldog said, "You sent that message yet? To Mara?"
Logan had been expecting the question. Bulldog had been pushing him for a week to reach out. To make contact. To stop thinking about it and actually do something. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what to say. 'Hey, remember me? The guy you pulled out of a cell three weeks ago? Want to grab coffee?'" Logan shook his head. "She's probably moved on. Got back to her life. Doesn't need some broken Delta operator showing up with baggage."
