Chapter 6

He moved his right foot a few inches forward. His legs trembled violently, and he grabbed the bench harder, but his foot moved."That's one step," she said, smiling.He breathed heavily. "I haven't done that in months.""Tomorrow, you do two steps," she said. "Then three, then more."He slowly sat back down in the wheelchair, exhausted but wide awake inside. He looked at the big house behind them. Then he looked back at the small girl standing in front of him."If she finds out I stopped taking the pills," he said quietly, "everything will change."The girl nodded. "Yes," she said. "But if you don't stop, nothing will ever change."He looked at his legs, then at the ground where his foot had just taken one small step.That night, he sat alone in his study, the lights off, the city of Seattle glowing faintly through the tall glass windows. The wheelchair was turned slightly toward the desk, but he wasn't working. In front of him were three things: his phone, a legal pad, and a small, clear plastic bag with a single white pill inside.He kept looking at the pill like it might change shape if he stared long enough. For six months, he had believed he was getting sick, that his body was failing him, that life had simply decided to take away the one thing he loved most: movement, freedom, strength. But now a different idea had taken root in his mind, and it would not leave: someone was not helping him recover; someone was making sure he didn't.He picked up his phone and made a call."I need access to the house security cameras," he said when the man on the other end answered. "All of them. Especially the kitchen, the hallway outside my bedroom, and the downstairs bar. I want the recordings from the last three months.""Is there a problem?" the man asked."I don't know yet," he replied. "But I think I've been very blind in my own house."He ended the call and leaned back in the chair, staring into the dark room. For the first time in his life, he was not afraid of losing money. He was afraid of losing his life while everyone called it an illness.The next morning, the routine continued exactly as before. She walked in with the pills and the glass of water, her voice soft, her face calm."Good morning," she said. "Did you sleep better?""A little," he replied."That's good," she said, shaking two pills into her hand. "Here, take these."He took the pills and pretended to swallow again. She watched, satisfied, then left the room to take a phone call. As soon as the door closed, he rolled quickly to his desk, opened the drawer, and placed the pills beside the other ones he had saved. The small pile of white pills was starting to grow.

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