said instantly, "I made an appointment with a new PT." And then waited until Mike and his thumbs up went away before locating and scheduling with a new PT.
T he medical building was situated on a low foothill with a view of the city. Several years old, it had survived the Great Recession by forgoing maintenance and paint. Tanner found it depressing. In the last two weeks he'd found a lot of things depressing, like his own solitary nature and his inability to do much with his shoulder the way it was. He went on working out, went on studying the thing in mirrors, as if he could see beneath the skin and root out the ongoing problem.
The new PT came into the outer office to collect him herself. Tall, freckled, dark hair back in a ponytail and in hard body shape, she offered her hand.
"Kaylie Jones. You're Tanner Davis?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Come on back." She led him through the doors out of the waiting room and into a torture chamber. There were exam rooms on the edges of the big space but most of the back office and exam room area had been gutted to create a gym and spa. "We'll just head into this room and you can tell me about your injury."
Tanner shook his head, confused. "You should have my medical charts."
She was busily pulling them up on a computer terminal as he spoke. She nodded, ponytail bobbing. "We do. But what I want is to hear from you what you think the injury is all about."
Tanner didn't bother trying to disguise the groan. "You're kidding, right?" The word psychobabble was on his lips.
She took no offense, just looked up from the screen and smiled at him where he still stood beside the chair she'd indicated. "Too new age for you?"
He shrugged. "I just don't think my opinion of my injury has anything to do with how it's healing. Or not healing." But the shrug sent a bolt of white hot pain through his shoulder and it couldn't hurt to find out what the PT had in mind, could it?
Kaylie Jones looked away from the computer when he managed to force himself to sit down. Folding her hands, she batted her screen away so it wasn't in her line of sight, then rested her chin on her hands, her elbows on her desk. Where other PT's had asked, "How did you sustain the injury?" and often referred to his shoulder by some complicated anatomical reference, Kaylie Jones said, "How did you hurt your shoulder?"
Tanner liked that. "My team led a mission to Syria. We were going inland, civilian hostage rescue only the insurgents were ready for us. No one knows if we had a spy or a hacker or what, and it doesn't matter. We were a sixteen-man crew and only half of us walked away."
"I'm sorry," she said simply, and didn't keep talking to make herself feel more comfortable. She just waited.
He found her easier to talk to than either of the shrinks. "We lost too many good men that day. Nobody did anything wrong. We had contingency plans for if we lost the element of surprise. We were just outmanned and outgunned and we lost people."
Quietly, she said, "Did you rescue the hostages?"
His gaze didn't quite sharpen on her. She remained a curiously cloudy and out of focus shape. He was letting himself remember. "Yes, ma'am, we did. All present and accounted for. But the Chinook chopper I was on went down in the gun fight. I ended up with wreckage from the wreck in my shoulder. Call it garbage." Catching her eye he said, "Not the shoulder. The metal in it. That's still there. It moves around. Some day we'll get it out. During the first surgeries it was in the wrong place. If they'd gone in, they'd risk me losing use of one or the other arms. Or both. Now the metal moves. Someday they'll pinpoint and retrieve it."
He stopped and just looked at her, feeling lost.
She said, "You're Ironman."
He laughed without expecting to and said, "I wish. Even I'm not arrogant enough to be Tony Stark."
She didn't point out that Stark was fiction. Instead, she said, "Let's get started finding out what you can do before we worry about your perceptions
T he medical building was situated on a low foothill with a view of the city. Several years old, it had survived the Great Recession by forgoing maintenance and paint. Tanner found it depressing. In the last two weeks he'd found a lot of things depressing, like his own solitary nature and his inability to do much with his shoulder the way it was. He went on working out, went on studying the thing in mirrors, as if he could see beneath the skin and root out the ongoing problem.
The new PT came into the outer office to collect him herself. Tall, freckled, dark hair back in a ponytail and in hard body shape, she offered her hand.
"Kaylie Jones. You're Tanner Davis?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Come on back." She led him through the doors out of the waiting room and into a torture chamber. There were exam rooms on the edges of the big space but most of the back office and exam room area had been gutted to create a gym and spa. "We'll just head into this room and you can tell me about your injury."
Tanner shook his head, confused. "You should have my medical charts."
She was busily pulling them up on a computer terminal as he spoke. She nodded, ponytail bobbing. "We do. But what I want is to hear from you what you think the injury is all about."
Tanner didn't bother trying to disguise the groan. "You're kidding, right?" The word psychobabble was on his lips.
She took no offense, just looked up from the screen and smiled at him where he still stood beside the chair she'd indicated. "Too new age for you?"
He shrugged. "I just don't think my opinion of my injury has anything to do with how it's healing. Or not healing." But the shrug sent a bolt of white hot pain through his shoulder and it couldn't hurt to find out what the PT had in mind, could it?
Kaylie Jones looked away from the computer when he managed to force himself to sit down. Folding her hands, she batted her screen away so it wasn't in her line of sight, then rested her chin on her hands, her elbows on her desk. Where other PT's had asked, "How did you sustain the injury?" and often referred to his shoulder by some complicated anatomical reference, Kaylie Jones said, "How did you hurt your shoulder?"
Tanner liked that. "My team led a mission to Syria. We were going inland, civilian hostage rescue only the insurgents were ready for us. No one knows if we had a spy or a hacker or what, and it doesn't matter. We were a sixteen-man crew and only half of us walked away."
"I'm sorry," she said simply, and didn't keep talking to make herself feel more comfortable. She just waited.
He found her easier to talk to than either of the shrinks. "We lost too many good men that day. Nobody did anything wrong. We had contingency plans for if we lost the element of surprise. We were just outmanned and outgunned and we lost people."
Quietly, she said, "Did you rescue the hostages?"
His gaze didn't quite sharpen on her. She remained a curiously cloudy and out of focus shape. He was letting himself remember. "Yes, ma'am, we did. All present and accounted for. But the Chinook chopper I was on went down in the gun fight. I ended up with wreckage from the wreck in my shoulder. Call it garbage." Catching her eye he said, "Not the shoulder. The metal in it. That's still there. It moves around. Some day we'll get it out. During the first surgeries it was in the wrong place. If they'd gone in, they'd risk me losing use of one or the other arms. Or both. Now the metal moves. Someday they'll pinpoint and retrieve it."
He stopped and just looked at her, feeling lost.
She said, "You're Ironman."
He laughed without expecting to and said, "I wish. Even I'm not arrogant enough to be Tony Stark."
She didn't point out that Stark was fiction. Instead, she said, "Let's get started finding out what you can do before we worry about your perceptions
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