Hidden in the Blood: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 5)

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Al, Tuesday

The first time the physical therapist got Al to try walking, it was a mixed experience. He was relieved to finally be getting out of bed, but the first time his socked feet hit the floor, the initial rush of blood to them, pulled by gravity, made them feel like they were being stung by a thousand bees.

"Jesus," he hissed. "Hold on." He squeezed the larger man's hand and waited until the feeling passed. It never entirely did, but he thought he shouldn't waste any more of the man's time. His name was Carl, and he had a job to do and probably other patients to see. "Okay, I think I'm ready, now."

Carl nodded and said, "Put an arm around my shoulders, and I'll keep one around your waist."

Al did as he instructed, and after a count of three rose with him off the bed. It was both exhilarating and terrifying, as the first change in orientation of his body in weeks sent his head spinning for a moment. He almost thought he was going to black out.

"We'll just stand here for a moment," Carl said, "and let your leg muscles get accustomed to working again. They've atrophied a little while you were out, so don't be surprised if you aren't able to go very far today."

He nodded and just concentrated on breathing for a minute. So far, so good. His legs didn't give out from under him, but they did feel a little shaky. 

"Okay, should we just try walking around your room?" Carl asked.

"Okay. I want to do as much as I can. I need to get home to my family."

"That's a good attitude, but let's not overdo it. You could end up injuring yourself and setting yourself back."

They took it slowly, one foot forward, then the other to meet it. Each step was another series of needle pricks. Al was embarrassed to find himself whimpering after every shuffle.

"It's going to be a little painful at first," Carl said. "That will go away the more you do it."

It was a kind of tortoise walk, a slow motion two-step dance to the end of the room, where a window showed him his first view of the outside in weeks. As he walked, feeling both pain at his unused muscles being forced into action and pleasure at movement he'd taken for granted all his life, he passed by another bed and realized he'd never seen his roommate or thought about the other patient in this room. The curtain was drawn across their bed, so he didn't know how old the person was or what their condition was, but he did hear machines beeping behind the curtain and surmised the patient must have been in an as bad or worse a condition as he was.

By the time they returned to his bed he was exhausted, and Carl lowered him slowly until his behind touched the mattress. "That's a good start," he said. "You'll be able to do longer walks every time, don't worry. Just make sure you eat as much as you can over the next couple of days, because you'll need fuel for the effort."

"If I can graduate past chocolate pudding, I know I can do more."

"That's up to the doctors. Your stomach's getting used to working just as much as your legs are."

Carl helped him lower himself under the sheets and took his leave with a few more encouraging words. Within minutes, Al was back asleep.

What encouraged him, though, was that the nap was relatively short, and that meant his strength was returning. When lunch arrived, he was pleased to see scrambled eggs, toast and apple juice on offer. Thank goodness. He was getting sick of chocolate pudding. 

By the time Rachel and Lauren arrived that evening, he was itching to get up and walk again.

It appeared Lauren had progressed a little too. Gone were her crutches. Her cast leg was now in a boot, and she was walking with a stick. "Hey," Al said. "Look at you, you're almost a hundred percent."