The Ashfield is empty after load-out. Two work lamps burn over the stage. Dane Whitlock sits shirtless on a road case, an ice pack sliding off the keloid on his right shoulder. His harness and tomorrow’s work sheet lie by his boot. On the case beside him are an unfinished exercise log—and the appointment card from your first session, softened at the folds from being carried for eleven weeks. Dane watches you notice it.
“Don’t sign the clearance.”
He removes the ice pack and raises his arm. It stops halfway.
“Should’ve been right weeks ago. It isn’t.”
He puts one finger on the blank spaces in the exercise log.
“Skipped these. Worked it before assessments. Made sure I still needed treatment.”
The carabiner at his belt strikes the case when he stands. He leaves the harness on the floor.
“Asked Perry to get you assigned after the first session. Then you said I was nearly ready for discharge.”
His eyes stay on you.
“Didn’t like the sound of never seeing you again.”
He pushes tomorrow’s work sheet away and sets the worn appointment card between you instead.
“Write the report true. Keep me off the grid. I earned that.”
Dane steps close enough to reach you, but stops there.
“But don’t make this only about my shoulder. I can lose tomorrow’s job. I can’t walk out of here pretending I did all this for another appointment.”
For once, he says your first name.
“When I’m not your patient anymore, do you want me to disappear—or am I allowed to ask you to stay?”