Second Chance Dad by Roxanne Rustand

probably detailing his injuries, surgical reports, lack of cooperation, and the data on his humiliating failure to show progress.
    A plastic goniometer—a hinged measurement apparatus for measuring angles of joint flexibility.
    Assorted physical therapy exercise devices, all ofwhich he’d seen before. None of which had done a lick of good.
    He felt his heart hardening all over again. But still, he’d given his word.
    She glanced around, strode over to the old-fashioned, oak claw-foot table in the dining area at the far end of the room and pulled out a spindle back chair. “This will work fine. Have a seat.”
    He made his way across the room, leaning heavily on his cane while trying not to limp. Her gentle smile and the way she stood ready to provide support made him feel like an old man. “I can get around, you know. I’m not exactly an invalid.”
    â€œOf course not. But you could get around a whole lot better, and I’m here to help you make that happen.” She pulled up another chair, sat in front of him and flipped open the metal cover of the chart. “I just have a few questions and then we’ll get started with a physical assessment.”
    â€œMy health history hasn’t changed since the last time a therapist was out here,” he drawled. He leaned forward and glanced at the upside-down list of questions on the sheet. “Just draw a downward arrow through the ‘No’ column there, and you’ll save us both some time.”
    She gave him a dry look.
    â€œI’m serious. No chronic diseases or conditions. No meds other than a baby aspirin. No changes, nocomplaints, no problems concerning any systems you could name.”
    â€œThen tell me what your goals are for your physical therapy.”
    He’d been ready for an argument over her questionnaire, and the abrupt change of topic felt like a punch below the belt. “I…don’t have any.”
    â€œLet me put it a different way. Where do you want to be in a year?”
    â€œRight here.”
    â€œSo it would be safe to write up a report saying that you wish to remain in an isolated cabin with chronic pain. Limited ambulation. Weakness. An inability to return to a productive life.”
    Her smile softened her words, but he knew she was intentionally baiting him. He didn’t respond.
    â€œVery well,” she continued. “Those are lofty goals, but I’m sure you can easily achieve every one of them.”
    She slipped out of her chair and knelt in front of his chair, then measured the angle of his knee flexion as he lifted, bent, extended and lowered each leg.
    His first impulse was to launch to his feet and flatly refuse this exercise in futility, yet her gentle touch and matter-of-fact, coolly professional manner gradually put him at ease. Which was just as well.
    What an abrupt departure attempt would earn him didn’t take much conjecture—he’d probably end up taking a header straight to the floor. Again.
    After sending him to the couch where she continued her assessments and documentation, she watched him stand and ambulate across the room and back.
    He’d started to almost enjoy their verbal sparring, but as she continued her assessment of his range of motion and strength, the light moment faded. Who was he kidding?
    One bad thing about being in the medical profession was that one knew too much to believe in false hopes and platitudes. He could recite the morphology and physiological details of every nerve and muscle she was evaluating. And he knew how badly they’d been damaged. How little hope there was—
    â€œ Dr. McLaren,” Sophie repeated, a little louder this time. She waited until he looked up and met her gaze. “Here’s the deal. Grace Dearborn got new orders for your therapy, since there’s been such a long lull after you were last seen. It’s still an ‘eval and treat,’ which places the modes of therapy