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“Because it’s the best way to bend your knee without risk of injury. It’s low-impact, it gets your circulation going, it flushes out stiffness and built-up flui⁠—”

“Okay, okay,” he said, lifting a hand from the handlebars to wave away my words. “It’s like you’re the doctor and know best or something.”

I grinned. “Believe it or not, I don’t do these things just for the fun of torturing you.”

“But you admit it’s fun!”

“Only with you, Jared,” I teased before refocusing on the therapy we needed to do. “Okay, today we’re going to move into full rotations.”

He groaned. “It hurts even to do half.”

“Which is why we’re going to pedal backwards.”

He eyed me. “You’re just messing with me now.”

“Nope.” I patted his arm. “Trust me. It’ll put less tension on your knee and quads, because you’ll be using your hamstrings. But let’s loosen you up with a few rocks before we go for it.”

“Okay,” he muttered.

I supervised while he shifted the pedal forward, then back, gradually loosening his knee.

“Okay, let’s go for it. You’ve got this.”

He let out a nervous breath and drew his leg up with the motion of the pedal. When he finally made the first revolution, he let out a laugh of victory. “Holy cow, I actually did it.”

I smiled. “Yes, you did.”

“That was scary, but it’s really not that bad.”

“You gotta trust me, man. I’m not actually a sadist. Let’s get you in dancing shape for Meryl, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grunted out as he moved through another slow pedal backward. We weren’t setting any speed records, and that was okay.

There was a commotion in the hall. Lots of “aww” and the click of claws on linoleum. I checked the wall clock. Axel was early.

“Do five more, then you’re done for today, okay?” I called over our PT aide, Les. “Oversee him as he pedals. Then help him stretch before he leaves.”

“Sure thing, Kit.”

Jared looked over, face flushed from exertion, even with such little movement. “Abandoning me, huh?”

“Yes, but you’ll see why and hopefully you’ll approve.”

His bushy eyebrows went up. “Well, now you’ve got me curious.”

I jogged across the gym and let myself into the hall, where Axel Wilder stood with a fawn-colored pug with a black face.

Our front receptionist, Emily, had abandoned her post to squat down and pet the dog. “He’s just adorable. What is his name?”

“Otis,” Axel replied.

“Otis,” she crooned. “You are just perfect, aren’t you? Such a good boy.”

I clasped Axel’s hand in a quick pump. “Thanks for coming out. Our director is in a meeting, so she asked me to greet you.”

“Happy to be here,” he said. “I’m just glad you were all receptive to the idea when I called. When Otis came into foster care with emotional therapy dog credentials, it seemed a waste not to use them.”

“Absolutely. How did he end up with you?”