Rehabilitation began with six inches.
That was all.
Six inches between my hospital bed and a padded chair.
Two therapists stood beside me.
Another supported my legs.
Sweat ran down my back before I even moved.
"Ready?" the therapist asked.
Her name was Sarah Kim.
Thirty-one.
Five-foot-three.
Absolutely terrifying.
"No."
"Good. We're doing it anyway."
I gripped the rails.
Sarah smiled.
"That's more like it."
Getting shot had been easier.
During combat, adrenaline made decisions for you.
Rehabilitation was different.
You had to voluntarily move toward pain.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Every day.
By the third week, I hated the parallel bars.
By the fourth, I hated Sarah.
By the fifth, I understood why she refused to let me quit.
"One more."
"I did ten."
"Then eleven won't kill you."
"You don't know that."
She leaned closer.
"I've read your file. Apparently you're extremely difficult to kill."
Despite myself, I laughed.
The laugh hurt.
But it mattered.
My first major surgery had repaired the worst fractures. Metal plates and screws now held together what Garrett's boots had shattered.
The nerve damage remained uncertain.
Some mornings I could feel my left foot.
Some mornings it was almost numb.
Progress never moved in a straight line.
That was the hardest thing to accept.
One good day could be followed by three terrible ones.
During those weeks, Agent Chen kept me updated.
The threatening text had been sent through a prepaid device.
The phone had been purchased with cash.
But whoever sent it had made one mistake.
They turned the device on near Naval Base Point Loma.
Only briefly.
Long enough for network records to narrow the area.
Then another development came.
A warehouse employee named Petty Officer Second Class Owen Briggs requested protective custody.
Chen visited me that evening.
"He wants to talk."
"About Garrett?"
"About the missing equipment."
"What does he know?"
"Enough to be scared."
Briggs had worked night inventory for fourteen months.
According to his statement, Garrett Voss had been removing equipment from disposal shipments.
Not ordinary gear.
Encrypted radio modules.
Optical equipment.
Specialized navigation components.
Nothing catastrophic by itself.
Together, valuable.
Very valuable.
"Who was buying?" I asked.
"We don't know yet."
"Briggs?"
"Says he never saw the buyer."
"But he helped?"
"He altered manifests."
"Why?"
"Money."
I stared at Chen.
"And now?"
"Now he thinks Garrett's associates will kill him."
"Associates?"
Chen's expression told me more than her words.
"This extends beyond four sailors."
I looked toward my wheelchair.
"Then let me help."
"No."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"I know depot procedures better than half the investigators you've assigned."
"You're a witness."
"I'm also an officer."
"You're also recovering from attempted permanent incapacitation."
I hated the phrase.
"Don't turn me into a victim."
Chen's face softened only slightly.
"I'm not. I'm keeping a witness alive."
Later, Admiral Ward gave me the same answer.
"Stay out of it."
"Sir—"
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"I can analyze records from here."
"No."
"You need someone who understands operational procurement."
"We have people."
"Not like me."
Ward stared.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The thing that's going to destroy you if you let it."
I leaned back in the wheelchair.
"You want to explain that?"
"You think your value depends on being the most useful person in every room."
"That has kept people alive."
"Yes."
His expression softened.
"But now you need to learn that being alive is enough."
I looked away.
I hated him for saying it.
Mostly because part of me knew he was right.
My parents arrived from Colorado two days later.
My mother walked into the rehabilitation wing carrying enough food for twelve people.
My father carried nothing.
He simply stopped when he saw me.
Dad had been a high-school history teacher for thirty-seven years.
Six-foot-one.
Quiet.
Impossible to impress.
He looked at the wheelchair.
Then at the braces.
Then at me.
His eyes filled.
"Dad."
He cleared his throat.
"Your mother packed lasagna."
Mom slapped his arm.
"I made lasagna."
"Same difference."
She hugged me carefully.
For the first time since the attack, I cried.
Not because of pain.
Because I was tired of being strong in front of everyone.
Mom held me.
Dad stood nearby pretending to examine a wall.
Eventually he said, "You know what your problem is?"
I wiped my face.
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
"You've always thought strength means nobody gets to carry you."
I looked at him.
He shrugged.
"Sometimes strength is knowing when to let people."
That sentence stayed with me.
Weeks passed.
I graduated from wheelchair to walker.
Then failed to walk seventeen feet without collapsing.
I threw a water bottle across the therapy room.
Sarah let it hit the wall.
"Done?"
"No."
"Good."
She handed me another bottle.
"Drink this one."
I almost threw that too.
Instead I drank it.
Then tried again.
Meanwhile, the investigation widened.
One missing communications module was recovered from a storage unit in Chula Vista.
Another surfaced in the possession of a private security contractor.
Financial records linked Garrett to several cash deposits.
Marcus Kane had purchased a boat he couldn't afford.
Cole Barrett had $38,000 in cryptocurrency transferred through an offshore exchange.
Travis Reed had been paying gambling debts.
Then Chen brought me a photograph.
A man in his late forties.
Gray suit.
Trim beard.
Cold eyes.
"Recognize him?"
"No."
"Name is Victor Hale."
"What does he do?"
"Officially? International logistics."
"And unofficially?"
"We believe he brokers restricted military technology."
I examined the photograph.
"Connection to Garrett?"
"Several."
"Enough to arrest?"
"Not yet."
I handed it back.
"Then why show me?"
"Because Hale asked about you."
My skin went cold.
"When?"
"Two days before the warehouse attack."
That night, security outside my room doubled.
Three days later, Garrett Voss requested a deal.
He wanted reduced charges.
In exchange, he would testify.
Against whom?
Victor Hale.
But before he could sign anything, Garrett was attacked inside the detention facility.
Not killed.
Barely.
Someone had gotten close enough to send a message.
Chen called me at six the next morning.
"Garrett's alive."
"Will he talk?"
"Now he wants immunity."
"He broke both my legs."
"I know."
"He deserves prison."
"I know."
"But Hale is bigger."
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
Justice wasn't always simple.
Sometimes the person who hurt you became the bridge to the person who ordered something worse.
"What do you need from me?"
"Nothing yet."
"That means something later."
Chen didn't deny it.
After we hung up, Sarah entered the room.
She pointed toward the parallel bars.
"Today we're doing twenty feet."
I looked at her.
"Yesterday I made twelve."
"Then today we make thirteen."
"You said twenty."
"I lie sometimes."
I stood.
My legs shook.
Every nerve screamed.
One step.
Then another.
Then another.
At thirteen feet, I almost fell.
Sarah caught my arm.
"No."
I tightened my grip.
"Don't."
She released me.
I took another step.
Fourteen.
Then fifteen.
At seventeen, tears were running down my face.
At eighteen, I could hear my father somewhere behind me.
"Come on, Claire."
Nineteen.
My mother whispered, "That's it."
Twenty.
I stopped.
The room was silent.
Sarah smiled.
"Now turn around."
I stared at her.
"You are a terrible human being."
"So I've been told."
I laughed.
Then slowly turned.
For the first time since Garrett Voss shattered my legs, I understood something.
Standing wasn't one moment.
It was a choice you made over and over.
And I was nowhere near finished choosing it.
---