“That tracks with what we’re seeing. Sensory return doesn’t always come back in a straight line. Different pathways recover at different rates.”
“So that’s good?”
He glances up. “That’s very good. It means signals are getting through. That’s what we want.”
I don’t tell Benji. Not yet. You don’t report a break in the case until the evidence is confirmed. If it happens again tomorrow, I might tell him.
It happens again the next day. And the day after. And the day after that. The left thigh above the knee, consistent pressure response every test. Then the left calf starts twitching, involuntary contractions that fire when Jason applies stimulation. Not voluntary movement. The nerves doing it on their own. The doctors order updated imaging. The swelling in my spinal cord is decreasing. The neural pathways are showing activity that wasn’t on the initial scans.
Benji calls at six every night, his face filling my phone screen. He tells me about clients and venues and Dante’s real estate obsession with 30A. I tell him about rehab. Some nights we don’t talk about anything important. The important thing is that we stay in contact. The little things matter as much as the big ones.
Late one night, my phone rings. It’s Tex.
“How’s my best buddy doing?” I have him on speakerphone and his deep voice fills my room.
“Your buddy has been learning how to cook from a wheelchair and holding ninety degrees on the tilt table. How’s my bar?”
“Your bar is still standing. Sheila’s running the front. Stormy’s running the kitchen. I’m running the construction and trying not to kill the contractor, who is a man named Dale who moves at the speed of a glacier with a hangover.”
“How’s the upstairs coming?”
“That’s why I’m calling. The elevator is in, Mickey. Installed last week. Runs from the back hallway straight up to your space. I rode it fourteen times the first day. Stormy toldme to stop but riding the elevator was fun and easier on my knees.”
“Did it pass inspection?”
“Sure did. Smooth and quiet. Big enough for your chair with room to spare. Stormy measured the turning radius in every direction. He got a tape measure and figured out how much room a wheelchair needs to make a full turn and designed every inch of that room around that number.”
“Tell him I said thank you.”
“The space is twelve hundred square feet with the bathroom closed off. The rest is open. The bathroom tile went in last week. One of Dale’s friends was supposed to do it and didn’t show up. So Stormy watched videos and did it himself. It looks better than professional.”
“Is there anything Stormy can’t do?”
“Not that I’ve found. Not as long as he has a YouTube video to watch. He’s nervous about you seeing everything. He was up at four this morning cleaning the elevator. Who cleans an elevator?”
“Stormy does.”
“Stormy cleans when he’s anxious. That’s why the Roadhouse is the cleanest bar in Bay County now.” He pauses and sighs. “One more thing. The space is going to be your space when you get here. Whatever happens in your life, that room fits around it. You understand what I’m saying?”
He’s leaving a door open without naming who the door is for. “I understand,” I say.
“So, how is the rehab going?” he asks.
“I did twenty wheelchair push-ups today. Jason says my arms are ahead of schedule.”
“Twenty? I can’t do twenty regular push-ups and I have working legs. Your arms are going to be bigger than mine and that’s a threat to my identity.”
“Your identity is fine, Tex. Nobody’s taking your title.”
“I don’t know about that. My title is Big Tex. If your arms get bigger than mine, I’ll have to change the sign to Medium Tex or Average Tex. Or maybe even Tex Who Used to Be the Biggest Man in The Building but His Best Friend Got Jacked in Rehab. That’s too much to fit on a blinking neon sign.”
“It could fit, but it would be a very long sign.”
“The sign budget is already stretched. Sheila wants me to add “And Grill” to “Big Tex’s Roadhouse” because she says people don’t know we serve food. I said the four-hundred-pound smoker in the parking lot is a clue. She said “not everyone knows what a smoker is, Tex.” I said “it’s a giant metal box that smokes.” Who doesn’t know what a smoker is? Before I go, I need to tell you one last thing. About the seagull.”
“Alright, go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ve got nothing but time.”
“There’s a seagull that’s been coming to the deck every day around lunch. Sits on the railing by table six and watches people eat. Today, lunch rush, guy orders a basket of fries. Sits down at table six. Makes the fatal error of getting up to grab napkins. He’s gone maybe fifteen seconds. The seagull dropsoff the railing, lands on the table, and slurps down half the basket before the guy gets four napkins out of the holder.”
