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“One more what? You done had me doing this shit for the last forty-five minutes.”

He laughed while standing beside me as I worked on straightening my right leg.

“And you’ve complained for forty-four of them.”

“Because you keep finding new ways to torture me.”

“It’s called physical therapy,” he said with a straight face.

“Call it whatever the fuck you want. I know punishment when I see it.”

Andre shook his head, still smiling, while I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the towel hanging around my neck. Five days a week, this nigga came to my house and found a new way to make me regret answering the damn door. We had converted one of the rooms downstairs into a space for my therapy sessions, and between the exercise equipment, walking bars, and other shit he’d brought in, it was starting to look like a rehabilitation center. I couldn’t remember the last time I had hated something so much while knowing I needed it.

Every session came with another set of exercises, something new to practice, or a conversation about how I needed to stop trying to rush my recovery. Andre had been working with me long enough to know I wasn’t the most patient person in the world, and he didn’t hesitate to remind me of that whenever I started getting frustrated. But I kept showing up. Even on the mornings when my legs were so stiff that getting out of bed felt like a workout by itself. Even when I was tired of being told what I could and couldn’t do. Even when the progress was so damn slow that I wondered whether I was wasting my time.

I kept doing the work because I had too much waiting for me. Eternity had been patient through all of it. She had helped me on days when I didn’t want anybody touching me, listened when I got frustrated, and reminded me that I was making progress whenever I started talking like I wasn’t. I knew she had been dealing with her own recovery after having Malachi, but somehow, she still found the energy to worry about mine. And my kids? They had adjusted to seeing me in that wheelchair a little too well for my liking.

Maylee had started treating the damn thing like it was a regular piece of furniture. She would climb onto my lap, ask me to take her somewhere, and then get mad when I told her I wasn’t her personal chauffeur. Maliah checked on me constantly, and MJ had spent so much time at the house after his little brother was born that I eventually had to tell his ass to go home. I loved having my family around me. I just wanted to be able to move around with them again.

“Mr. Browne.”

I looked up. Andre was standing beside the walking bars, holding something in his hand. It was a cane. I stared at it for a second before looking at him.

“What the hell is that?”

He looked down at it.

“A cane.”

“No shit.”

He laughed.

“We’ve been talking about working toward this. I want to see how you do with it today.”

I sat up straighter in my wheelchair.

“For real?”

“For real. But before you get excited, we’re not getting rid of your wheelchair. We’re trying a few supported steps. That’s it.”

I looked at the cane again. I had been waiting to hear something like that for weeks.

“You think I’m ready?” I asked.

“I think you’re ready to try. There’s a difference.”

I nodded.

“Aight.”

He rolled my wheelchair closer to the walking bars before locking the brakes. Then he explained what he wanted me to do. He reminded me to take my time and let him know if I felt dizzy or had any sharp pain. I listened.

For once, I didn’t have anything smart to say. Andre secured the gait belt around my waist and positioned himself beside me while I placed my hands on the armrests.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”