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The private room he led her to was spartan, just an X-ray table with its huge mobile arm in the centre, a chair in the corner, and various cabinets and medical items against the far wall. A viewing room sat off to the side, and TJ stood by the X-ray bed, scowling and holding his gown shut.

When he saw Skye’s face, still red from crying, his scowl died. He came to her, asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ she lied.

TJ studied her face, his brow notched with concern.

Dr Harris moved forward and spoke kindly but firmly. ‘TJ, your SCI has resulted in systemic inflammation and a chronic secondary injury cascade. To be completely honest, I’m not sure how you’ve survived to this point without numerous epidurals and a horde of painkillers.’

TJ smiled darkly, but he looked directly at Skye when he replied, ‘I have a high tolerance for suffering.’

‘Well, I can see a clear path to things improving, but if you don’t start taking the necessary steps, your situation is going to decline.’

TJ was eerily quiet.

So, Skye said, ‘Tell us what we have to do.’

‘We’re going to start with the ESI – the epidural steroid injection. Once that starts helping with your pain management, we’re going to get you back on a long-term physical therapy programme. You’ll be on a full anti-inflammatory diet. I’m going to give you muscle relaxants and sleeping pills for the days when you need to pass out for a good ten hours. I’ll consult with your surgeon, so that we can agree on a path forward, and so that he’s fully updated when you go home. After the rodeo season, I think you should speak to your doctor about more advanced research possibilities and medical trials.’

‘You ready?’ Skye asked.

TJ just shrugged. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

Dr Harris moved around the table, pulling on a protective vest and goggles. ‘If you could lie facedown on the X-ray table, TJ?’ He turned back to Skye and pointed to a door in the corner. ‘Skye, if you could wait in the viewing room?’

TJ passed her his phone. ‘Could you hold on to this for me?’

Skye took it. She left to stand in the adjacent room and watched through the glass as the live X-ray was taken. When the doctor lifted a fat syringe off the nearby counter and pulled the cap off a huge needle, Skye’s stomach turned over in one long slow roll.

In her pocket, TJ’s phone continuously vibrated as notifications came through. Skye ignored it.

It was a quick but gruelling procedure, one that made her skin prickle with displeasure. As she watched, she couldn’t help but wonder how many hours of sleep TJ had lost. How many antidepressants he had taken. And although she could still say that TJ had gone about it the wrong way, she finally understood that he’d shut her out for what he thought were the right reasons. For her.

It changed things. Had their situations been reversed, she knew now that she would have done the same thing. She would have tried to spare him.

Overwhelmed by the thought, Skye lost her patience when TJ’s phone kept vibrating in her back pocket. She whipped it out, intending to turn it off, and paused when she saw that the notifications were all from social media accounts.

Curious, she pulled her own phone out. She looked TJ up for the first time in nearly two years.

Her heart beat dully in her chest when she saw his new Instagram aesthetic. Grief clawed through that empty ache.

Although his following had grown, hitting nearly a million people, his posts had changed. Still professionally produced, the videos were stitched together with a mix of actual footage that had been darkened to look like something out of a horror film, with punk graffiti spray-overs and heavy metal music. The content of his videos ranged from ones of him trying to walk in a harness and constantly collapsing to replayed footage of his accident, with dramatic pauses, music, and a skull and crossbones flashing across the screen as the bull took him down.

Bile filled her throat.

Her hands, holding the phone, shook – with rage and grief and confusion.

When the doctor waved her back in, Skye slipped both phones into her pocket. She took a deep breath and re-entered the room.

At the doctor’s encouragement, TJ slowly sat up on the bed, holding his gown closed again.

Dr Harris removed his gloves. ‘That’s it. Now, the steroid’s efficacy varies wildly. And it may take a few hours to a day or two to kick in fully. We’ll be calling you in a few days to check in. Otherwise, once I get your medical records, I’ll refer you to a physical therapist who’ll send you an exercise and mobility plan you can do on the road.’ He pulled the clipboard out from its slot on the wall and wrote some notes. ‘I’ve prescribed you some pain meds. Be cautious with them. Use them only when absolutely necessary. Same for the muscle relaxants and sleeping pills. They’re easy to abuse,’ he said, and looked pointedly at Skye. ‘However, if managed effectively, a few more hours of sleep can drastically change your outlook on life. There’s a reason sleep deprivation is considered an effective means of torture.’ He looked up. ‘Do you have any questions?’

‘No,’ TJ replied.

Skye asked, ‘How long will the steroid last?’

‘It varies. Weeks to months. Some people find they only need one to get back into the flow of things. But given the extent of your injury, TJ, you may need to keep getting them every few months for a while. We can get your pain under control, but healing the injury is going to take time, patience, and trial and error.’