Randi sat at the table, her hand positioned exactly where it had been for the last twenty minutes, a set of small foam blocks lined in front of her.
“I am trying,” she said, the frustration already rising.
“I know you are,” Trinity replied, calm but firm. “Try again.”
There was no softness in the instruction this time.
No room to back away.
Randi inhaled sharply and focused, forcing her fingers to respond, to close, to move with something resembling control.
The block shifted.
Slipped.
Fell.
Her jaw tightened.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Trinity said evenly. “You just don’t like how it feels.”
Randi looked up at her, something close to anger flashing in her eyes.
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because stopping guarantees you won’t get it back.”
The words landed hard.
Truth had a way of doing that.
Randi looked down again, breathing unevenly as she forced her hand to try again.
This time, her fingers closed slightly more.
Not enough.
But more.
Trinity nodded once.
“That’s it. Just what your brain asked
for. Now do it again so your nerves recognize the signal.”
The session continued like that—push, fail, try again—until exhaustion replaced frustration.
When it finally ended, Randi leaned back in her chair, drained.
“You need help at home,” Trinity said, more gently now.
Randi shook her head immediately.
