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“On three.”

I leaned forward, pushing through my arms as I tried to get my feet underneath me.

“One. Two. Three.”

I stood. Not smoothly and not without my legs trembling. But I stood. Andre kept one hand on the gait belt while I steadied myself between the bars.

“Good. Take a second.”

I stared straight ahead, breathing through the tightness in my legs. My left leg was cooperating better than my right, which wasn’t anything new. The right one had been giving me hell since I started therapy. Some days it felt stronger than others, and on the bad days, it was like my body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to listen to me.

“Pain?” Andre asked.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s tight. Like a little sore,” I sighed.

“Sharp pain?” he asked.

“Nah.”

“Okay. Let’s get you balanced first.”

He had me shift my weight slowly while keeping my hands close to the bars. Once he was satisfied that I was steady enough to attempt it, he handed me the cane and showed me how he wanted me to position it. I gripped the handle, and it felt strange. I wasn’t used to needing something in my hand just to take a step, but I wasn’t about to complain about the thing that might help me get out of that wheelchair.

“All right,” Andre said. “We’re going to move the cane first, then your weaker leg, then the stronger one. I’m right here with you.”

“Let’s do it,” I said as I nodded.

I moved the cane forward. Then I tried to move my right leg.

For a second, it felt like my foot was glued to the floor. I clenched my jaw and concentrated. Come on, motherfucker. My foot finally lifted. I brought it forward and planted it beside the cane.

“Good,” Andre said. “Now bring the left through.”

I did. One step. That was all. One slow, awkward-ass step that probably looked like something a toddler could’ve done better. But I’d done it.

“That’s it,” Andre encouraged. “Take your time.”

I adjusted my grip on the cane and tried again. My right leg started trembling halfway through the movement, and I felt Andre tighten his hold on the belt.

“Easy. Don’t rush it,” he coached.

“I ain’t rushing.”

“You’re trying to.”

I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, but I needed every bit of concentration I had. I planted my foot. Then brought the other one forward. Two steps. By the time I attempted the third, sweat was running down the side of my face, and my breathing had gotten heavier.

My legs were burning like I had been running for miles instead of moving a few feet. Andre stayed close, guiding me without doing the work for me.

“That’s enough,” he said after I completed the third step.

I looked at him.

“Enough?”