After my morning visit from Laney and practicing my ADL's, I have some time to kill before physical therapy. I decide to listen to some music. I find my iPod and cue up some Imagine Dragons.

I close my eyes and start singing with one of my favorite bands in the world, "When the days are cold and the cards all fold, and the saints we see are all made of gold..."

I feel the left earbud being pulled from my ear and my eyes pop open to find Ethan plugging the bud into his ear. He greets me with his awesome smile. I'm surprised to realize that, even though I felt a little awkward about Ethan volunteering to join me today, now I'm thankful that he'll be coming with me. He's definitely good for moral support.

We listen to the song, and even belt out the last chorus together, "It's where my demons hide
It's where my demons hide."

"So, you like Imagine Dragons?" I ask.

"Oh, yeah. I 'em," he nods. "I saw them in concert last summer. They put on a great show!"

"Do you, by any chance, like country music?" I ask hesitantly.

"No way," Ethan cringes. "Why? Do you?" He plasters an exaggerated grimace on his face that makes me snort in laughter.

"Absolutely not." I laugh at the very idea. "I just wondered, you know, because you wear those cowboy boots."

"Oh, you noticed those, did you?" He looks a little embarrassed. "My sister Stephanie bought them for me for Christmas. She's a little bit, um, eccentric might be the best word to describe her. She's very artsy and she loves to try to dress me in more interesting clothes than I would normally choose."

"Ahh, I see," I nod my head. "So, is it okay for you to listen to this music?"

"Meaning what?"

"It's not Christian music." I immediately feel stupid for saying it.

He chuckles at my observation. "Just because I'm a Christian doesn't mean I can't enjoy good music."

"I just thought you might shy away from a song about demons."

"Well, you and I both know it's not really about those kinds of demons. Everyone has darkness inside somewhere. We all fight against our instinct to be selfish and lazy in order to be good and decent human beings. Being a Christian helps me to be more successful in fighting those daily battles because I know I have God on my side."

I furrow my brow a little, not completely getting what he's saying. But there isn't time for more questions.

"It's almost time for therapy," He announces, leaning over to adjust my foot rests and release the brakes.

His hand is resting on one of the wheelchair arms; when he stands up, I put my hand over his and tell him, "Thanks for offering to come with me today. I'm glad you're here."

His cheeks get red and blotchy and he gives me a small, "You're welcome." He's blushing! And I don't think I've ever seen anything cuter in my life. I've always been a sucker for ruddy cheeks.

When we arrive at the therapy gym, Patrick hurries over. "Ethan?" He asks with more than a hint of surprise in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

The two exchange a hearty handshake with one of those half-hugs that included slapping each others' backs. "Patrick, it's great to see you!" He grins. "I didn't know you worked here. I'm here with Sarah."

"Well, I can see that," Patrick answers. "What have you been up to?"

"I've been at Broadwell since graduation. Just working for a living, you know."

"Oh, yeah, you didn't have to go out and find a job after college like the rest of us. You got right in at your dad's clinic." Patrick's teasing is obvious, but I'm confused by the buddy banter.

"Hold on, can one of you explain what's going on?" I interrupt. "How do you know each other?"

Ethan offers, "Oh, I'm sorry, Sarah. Patrick and I were at Central together. You probably didn't know I'm a physical therapist, too, did you? I work at my dad's clinic out on the west side of town."

This bit of news stuns me a little, but I simply reply, "No, I didn't know that. But it makes sense now since you're always encouraging me about getting better, that it will get easier. You deal with people like me all the time." I hope he can't hear the twinge of sarcasm in my voice.

Patrick gives Ethan a strange look and then says, "You didn't tell your girlfriend what you do for a living, or about your dad-"

Ethan interrupts and says, "No! No, it's not like that at all. We're not...um...she's not..." His cheeks grow red and blotchy again.

Patrick catches on and says, "Oh, I'm so sorry. I just jumped to conclusions because you two seem close."

To save him from further embarrassment and confusion, I explain, "Ethan saved my life."

Patrick's eyes grow wide as he looks back and forth between Ethan and me. "What? Really?"

Ethan nods and I communicate either what I remember or what had been filled in for me. The words coming out of my mouth sound bizarre and disconnected and I still have a hard time believing that I'm talking about myself.

"You were tough, Sarah," Ethan assures me. "You talked to me and kept eye contact. That's pretty unusual for a victim with your injuries." His compliments hit me right where I need them. Knowing he thinks I'm strong and courageous makes me feel just a little more that way.

"Well, I didn't really know what was happening, to be honest," I admit. "I was just glad you were there," I tell Ethan with a genuine smile.

Patrick is still staring at the two of us in disbelief. Finally, regaining his composure, he apologizes once again for his incorrect assumption. Ethan laughs it off. Most of the blush has worn off his cheeks, but a tinge of rose remains throughout our session.

"Are you and Elena still together?" Ethan asks Patrick.

"Yeah, man. We're getting married this summer. Text me your address and I'll send you an invitation."

"Sure thing," Ethan answers. "Congratulations, man. I always liked Elena."

Sigh. The cute ones are always taken. Ethan probably is, too, he just hasn't gotten around to telling me yet. Like not telling me he's a physical therapist.

"Well, let's get started, Sarah," Patrick tells me as he's already pulling the bandages off of my stump. "How's it feeling today?"

"Same, I guess. Sometimes they lessen the numbing medication to see how I handle it, and I think maybe it's hurting less now. But I still don't want to know what it feels like with no medication."

"I don't blame you," Patrick tells me. "You ready to try it?"

I nod. At this point, I'll do anything to be able to walk again.

Ethan locks my wheelchair in front of the parallel bars while Patrick moves the foot plates and kneels down in front of me. First, he shows me how to roll a liner onto my thigh, getting all the air out from the bottom. Then he shows me the prosthetic leg and I'm surprised to see that it's basically a piece of metal with a foot attached to the bottom and a large plastic cup attached to the top. He takes my right shoe and puts it on the foot. There's another long piece of elastic fabric that's attached to the lower part of the cup section that will go on the stump. Once my leg is inside of it, he rolls the lower piece of fabric up and onto my leg, over the liner to where it grips onto my skin.

"How can I be sure it will stay on?"

He explains that the artificial leg has a valve that releases air and creates a vacuum as I walk, so the leg will suction to my own residual limb, in addition to the heavy duty elastic fabric that attaches it to my leg.

"Cool," I tell him and I'm genuinely serious. I never would have guessed how such a thing worked before I had to use one.

Once he gets it to a place where he feels like it's secure, he helps me to stand up. Ethan is immediately at my other side. The cup that's holding my stump feels odd and kind of uncomfortable and before I can comment on it, Patrick informs me, "You will eventually have one of these that's custom made just for your body. It may feel funny now but you'll get used to it quickly. And when you have your own, the your prosthetics specialist will tweak it until it's perfect for you. Then it just becomes part of your daily routine, like brushing your teeth or putting contacts in your eyes."

"Except that most people can walk without brushing their teeth or wearing contacts," I grumble impatiently.

"This is true," Ethan smirks. "But when you learn to make time for it in your routine, it really does become second nature."

"You know from experience?" I snap at him and Patrick gives us both a funny look. I change my tone of voice and tell Ethan, "I'm sorry. Let's just get started, okay?"

The first thing I do is take one step backward and it seems to offer a bit of a lesson, that this is  a setback in my life - a step backward, if you will - but it doesn't mean I have to keep moving backward. The quickly learned lesson is soon forgotten as I focus on the feeling and appearance of something that resembles my real leg but really isn't part of my body at all. Stepping backward feels unsteady and I'm afraid the leg will somehow bend or crash or give out on me, but Ethan murmurs a quiet, "You're okay. It's not going anywhere."

Patrick points out that it takes some time to get used to the feel of the leg and to trust it as I would my own body. Since my amputation is above the knee, the artificial leg has a built in knee that flexes. He explains how to step forward with my heel setting down first and that causes the knee to lock and not bend too much and give out. It all seems a bit confusing and I wonder how I will bend my knee when I want to, but I simply pay attention to walking forward.

And I do it!

I'm walking when just a few days ago, I was worried I'd never walk again!

After Ethan and Patrick have assisted me in walking back and forth between the therapy bars, I catch sight of my mom out of the corner of my eye. Patrick keeps instructing me on the nuances of taking a step or standing comfortably or turning around.

Mom smiles and waves and then she pulls out a tissue and dabs at her eyes. Typical Mom, getting misty-eyed about every little thing. Of course, seeing me walk again after a life-threatening accident might not be such a little thing. As I'm trying to focus on walking gracefully and ignoring the increasing discomfort. Mom pulls out her camera and snaps a few shots. Just in time, because tears are starting to sting my eyes as well.

"Does it hurt, Sarah?" Patrick asks, noticing my sniffle.

"A little," I tell him, which is true. "But I'm just kind of...emotional, I guess." That's an understatement. I think I've been through every possible emotion since we entered the therapy gym. There is a growing ache in my leg, but it really is true that my emotions are all over the map. I'm excited to be making progress, but I'm still feeling bitter because I have to do all of this to work my way back to where I was a few weeks ago. And I'll never quite be the same as I was a few weeks ago because I'll never get my own leg back. I still get angry when I think about what I'm missing out on at school, and what I'll miss out on for the rest of my life. But then again, it's thrilling just to be standing again, after two weeks of not doing it on my own at all.

Ethan and Patrick help me walk across the gym to my mom where she hugs me while they keep me steady. Once we get back to the bars and my wheelchair, I'm already tired and sore. Even so, Patrick makes me walk between the bars several more times.

"Can we be done?" I ask Patrick, noticing the session is almost over anyway. "It aches now and I'm tired."

"Of course," he smiles without hesitation. "You did great today."

Ethan takes over, "It's going to take time. You will get a little stronger every day, but it won't happen all at once. Patrick's right, you're really doing great."

"Now you're just saying that because you have to," I say, only partly joking. "It's your duty as a doctor or something like that." Ethan shakes his head with a small smile as he helps me into the wheelchair.

My mother bends down to give me a giant mama-bear hug. "I'm proud of you, honey. You're working really hard." She and Ethan make small talk on the way back to my room. She stays for a few more minutes to chat, and then tells me she has to get back to work.

"Can you find my nurse before you leave?" I ask.

"I'll find her for you," Ethan offers. "What do you need?"

"I'm aching. I wonder if I can take something for the pain."

My mom waves good-bye and walks out of the room with Ethan.

I let a few tears escape, but I wipe them away quickly. I don't want Ethan to see me crying anymore. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by my lack of ability to take matters into my own hands. I wish I could just throw on that fake leg and walk out of this damn hospital but I can't force my body to behave the way I want it to and it's beyond frustrating. How dare my body betray me like this!

The nurse comes in with two large white pills. Lunch is waiting in my room but I tell her that I'm not hungry. Ethan helps me transfer to my bed and then pulls up a chair. He hands me a cup of pudding. "Eat this with those pills; it will help you so the medication isn't too hard on your stomach." He spoons a few bites into my mouth, and I feel slightly flustered that he's feeding me like a baby so I snatch the cup from his hand and finish it myself.

"I think I'm going to take a nap," I inform him as I adjust my bed. "Thanks again for coming today. I appreciate you."

He leans in close to me and looks into my eyes. I'm too tired to decide whether he's invaded my comfort zone. His eyes are calming and beautiful. They bring back hazy memories of the day of the accident when I didn't know what was happening, when I was confused and terrified and disoriented. Those eyes kept me focused, calm. They gave me something to cling to while I lay there in the snow, not even knowing how close I was to death.

So I let him stay in my comfort zone. He strokes my hair and quietly says, "You astound me, Sarah. You are strong and courageous. And I'm not just saying that as a physical therapist. I'm saying that because I know you well enough already to see that in you. I'm saying that as your friend."

I'm surprisingly comforted by his soothing voice drifting into my ears. The pain meds must kick in fast because I drift off quickly, with Ethan's fingers still sifting through my hair.

* * * * *

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