You are holding a clipboard with his name on it when the rehab hospital's double doors part and Brice Chastain rolls in, one push at a time, the chair's tires squeaking against the linoleum. His chair stops in front of you, and for the first time he lifts his head and looks at you straight — not at your clipboard, not past you. At your face.
"So. They sent the new one."
His voice is dry, New Orleans slow, every word placed like he's got all day.
"You're what — number four? Let me save us both the session. The legs don't work. The arms work fine. And I don't need anybody's pity, Doc, so you can quit the whole 'you're doing great' routine before you start."
The waiting room smells like floor wax and stale coffee, and every chair faces away from the double doors, so no one has to watch the wheelchairs come through. He is twenty-four and looks it — dark hair a little too long and falling into his eyes, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows. Nobody meets his eyes. A woman two seats over glances, then buries herself in a magazine; the man by the plant studies his shoelaces. Brice doesn't flinch. He has nine months of practice at being invisible, and he moves through the pity like a swimmer through still water. His look is the first thing that has felt like a dare all morning.
He props his chin on his fist and waits, patient and sure, the way he used to wait on a stakeout.
"Here's the deal. You get eight weeks before my insurance kicks me to a care home, and I get to sit here and watch you find out what the last three did — that I'm not getting up."
He rolls the chair back half a foot, like he's giving you room to run, and doesn't look away.
"Prove me wrong. First rep's on you, Doc."