sultal's note: First, thank you to everyone who sent PM/emails asking me to keep writing! I KNOW that I've been missing- once again I am in clinic and ask for your patience.

But, good news, I joined a "writing prompt" club thing that allows me to write on a deadline each week. I get home, write a little each night, and have it done usually by the week deadline. I highly recommend it - it is fun.

The first prompt was "Grab the book, magazine, or newspaper nearest you and open up to a random page. Start your story with the first line at the top of the page and end your story with the last line at the bottom of the page."

So obviously I wrote a fanfiction for Captain Hook and Wendy...sorta ;). In any case, the nearest book I had was my school textbook. SO, since I am on clinic, I thought I would share with you guys some of the stuff I am learning/doing that keeps me away from the stories I think about constantly while I am there.

keep writing. good gods, keep writing.

Writing Prompt #1

Title: You May Call Me Captain

"Have the patient move from the straight hand to the hook fist position by flexing the DIP and PIP joints while maintaining MCP extension."

I paused.

I looked up at the patient. Dumbly he looked back, forearm dead weight in my hands.

Behind me, my clinical instructor waited.

"Well?"

Thinking furiously I probed the patient's injured fingers, stalling for time.

"...um…"

"Um is a filler." said my clinical instructor. "Not an answer. So let's go. Straight hand to hook fist."

"And don't break me Bright Eyes!" added the patient. He winked. "Easy on the goods! Gotta get this hand strong for all them passing skirts!"

Oh please. I frowned. Dirty old man.

"Straight hand to hook fist." repeated my clinical instructor, bypassing the inappropriate comment. He leaned, shadow hot on my shoulders. "Your curriculum covers this. Should be automatic at this stage in the game. Let's go."

The patient chuckled. He winked again.

Glowering, I concentrated on stretching the patient's hand.

I had been getting this all day. All month, in fact. Flirtatious patients in my face and clinical instructor breathing down my neck. That was the caveat of hospital clinical rotations; physical therapy students get absolutely no respect.

"YEE- ouch!" the patient yelled.

I jumped. The patient laughed, clearly not hurt. Twisting happily in his wheelchair, he nodded to my scrubs.

"Ants in yer pants, ayyyy Bright Eyes?"

I flexed his wrist, relaxing the tendons. "Did I hurt you?"

"He was joking." said my clinical instructor. "You would have felt the tension if he was hurt."

I nodded. Diligently, I repeated the stretch.

"Hold it. Stop." Swoop came my clinical instructor, just like a vulture. "Do that again. Show me your technique."

I did. Carefully. Silently I reviewed.

Bend the top two finger joints. Keep the knuckles straight. Three second hold. Repeat. Don't mess up.

I waited. My clinical instructor stared.

"Is - " I exhaled, "- I mean. That's right? Right?"

"Go back to the beginning."

Uh oh.

My stomach dropped somewhere around my sneakers. Obediently I straightened the patient's fingers, supported his wrist, then extended them back.

Please be right. I prayed, trying not to shake. Please be right, please be right, oh please please please be right.

"Okay, that's not right."

Darn.

Here come the questions.

"What is the goal of this exercise?

"To stretch the flexors - " I stammered, sweating bullets. "The stretch glides the blocked flexor tendons to prevent contracture formation so the hand doesn't get stuck in a fist - ."

"Okay hold it. Slow down. What is the action of the finger flexor muscles?"

"To make a fist."

My clinical instructed waited. His eyebrows raised expectantly. "And?"

"Annnnnnd…" I traced my hand, reviewing the anatomy. "Pronate?"

"And?"

"Annnnnnd…." Helplessly I looked to my patient. He winked, and I wished he would either defend my technique or go into cardiac arrest so I didn't have to answer this trick question. "...and... ummmmm…."

"Um is a filler." said my clinical instructor. "Not an answer. Okay, what muscles flex the fingers?"

"Flexor digitorum superficialis." I responded, falling back on the hallmark finger flexor.

"That's one. What are the others?"

Oh geeze.

Hand anatomy is hard. There are so many tiny muscles and intricate joints. Most physical therapist know them well enough to get by but prefer to take a "hands off" approach, leaving finger rehabilitation to the specialists. Yes. 'Hands off.' Pun intended.

However, my clinical instructor was Mr. Physical Therapy. As far as I knew, he invented the finger flexors. He was brilliant. And I think he kinda knew it.

"Finger flexors." repeated my clinical instructor. "You got one. Let's go. Name the others."

"And be snappy!" sang the patient.

"Okay, um." I said, thinking aloud. "So. If there is a flexor superficialis, which means superficial, there has to be a deep muscle. So then the flexor digitorummm-"

"Flexor digitorum profundus." he impatiently said.

I nodded. "Yeah. Yes off cour - "

"There is one more finger flexor." my clinical instructor eyed the clock "You know it or not?"

Nervously, I nodded, but only because 'I'm blanking' sounded too stupid. "Yes. I - "

"If you don't know it, then you don't know it."

"No, no it's the - the - um - "

"Um's a filler."

I panicked. So I said something really stupid.

"Flexor digiti minimi?"

My clinical instructor twitched. He looked like he was trying not to smell the trash I just shoved under his nose.

"There's an extensor digiti minimi." he finally said, turning to the patient "...actually no such thing as a flexor digiti minimi..."

My cheeks burned. "R..right. That was stupid - "

"The last finger flexor," he interrupted, ignoring my apology and lifting the patient's hand, "is the flexor pollicis longus."

"Oh. Yeah." Halfheartedly I offered the muscle action. "Bends the thumb…"

"Correct. What else?"

"...what else?"

"What else!" the patient chimed .

"What else…" my clinical instructor curled the patient's fingers, "...do the finger flexors do? Besides make a fist?"

I gawked, searching for the answer he was trying to show me. My brain buzzed like a poorly tuned radio.

"They pronate." I repeated. Helplessly I pointed to my inner elbow. "They pronate because the flexor muscles start at the medial epicondyle. The inner elbow. Then they run down the arm, and into the hand after crossing... the wrist."

Snap. A lightbulb went off in my head (about a billion years too late).

"Oh. The wrist. Those three finger flexors also...flex the wrist." Weakly I demonstrated. "So in that exercise...I forgot about the wrist.""

Duh.

My clinical instructor nodded. "Which way would you position the wrist to stretch the finger flexors?"

"Backwards. Into extension."

"Correct."

"Should I…" I flushed as the patient applauded. "...should I do the exercise again?"

My clinical instructor scoffed.

"No." he said, reapplying the patient's brace. Enviously I watched. His fingers moved fluidly as water. "We ran out of time ten minutes ago talking."

Message sent and received. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me." My clinical instructor said, "I'm not the one that's going to stay late documenting. Speaking of which - "

He nodded to the office door. "- you still have notes from this morning. Go document. I'll call Transport to wheel Mr. Jolli back to his room."

The patient - Mr. Jolli - sighed melodramatically. "He's tearing us apart again, Bright Eyes!"

"Yeah. Guess so." I mumbled, unable to retaliate under my clinical instructor's scrutiny . "Take care Mr. Jolli."

"Call me Roger!" He sang, alternatingly winking and blowing kisses. "I'll miss ya, Bright Eyes!"

Yup. I grimaced, practically sprinting from the gym. I'm sure you will.

Normally, I'm not so dismal. Nor am I so easily repulsed. To tell you the truth, I had soft spot for cute old men. It was one of the more popular hospital stereotypes and I totally fell for it. Now granted, my buddy Mr. Roger Jolli was not cute. But he was old. And sick. And his hand was in dire need of physical rehabilitation (Boating accident. Nasty finger laceration).

And, I wanted to help. I did. Inherently I'm very nurturing. It's the reason social circles dub me "The Mother." That's why I entered physical therapy in the first place: I like to heal. I like to help. I like to protect.

Aside from being an admirable profession, physical therapy has all the benefits. Think about it: doctors with the luxury of (1) spending ample time with their patients and (2) wearing sneakers to work. It seemed a no brainer - doctorate, nurturing, sneakers. The perfect recipe for happily ever after.

Then, I started this clinical.

It was Hell. The second I met my clinical instructor I was doomed. He was cold, exacting, and definitely pressed a hex into my hand that first day we shook. With about 52 letters after his name, he modified everything I did or explained. His addendums were always highly specific, beautifully evidence-based, but very, very, very public. Not only did he know I was an idiot - my patients did too.

It was humiliating. And I hated it. I hated going home to study, knowing the harder I tried the dumber I would look. I hated going to bed, knowing I'd nightmare about the morning. I hated waking up, knowing I'd dread going to work. I hated coming to work, knowing my clinical instructor was there.

I hated physical therapy.

The best part of my day was walking out the door.

"Well hello there, my Darlin'!"

The occupational therapist (OT) smiled as I entered the office. She was an outrageously radiant older lady. Instantly I felt her sunshine. She was everything I wanted to be: smart, stunning, sensitive, sassy.

I sat at my computer. "Hi."

"Well that's a droopy face!" Secretively, she leaned. "Where's Doctor Crocodile Breath?"

You see? She was great. As a general rule, you'll never meet a sour OT.

"Finishing a treat." I answered, slipping into my chair. "Mr. Jolli."

Wisely, she nodded. "That man is cantankerous with a capital C."

I wasn't sure if she meant Mr. Jolli or my clinical instructor. Her adjective fit both. Spirits lifted, I unlocked my computer screen.

"Speaking of which." she said, simultaneously talking and typing. "You just got a referral."

I dropped my clipboard.

"I got a what?"

"A referral."

"A referral?" My clinical instructor materialized beside me. Hand on my chair, he glared at the OT. "Her?"

The OT smiled but her posture indicated displeasure with the younger man's tone.

"Yes, her. And you should be flattered. It's not often we get requests for students to treat. Especially in the hospital."

My clinical instructor scoffed. "For sound reason."

I cowered in my seat. "Um. It's okay. I don't have to take the patient if - "

"Who's the patient? Who gave the referral?"

The OT handed him a sheet. "The patient is new. EMS just dropped him off in the ambulance."

My clinical instructor frowned. "What's the diagnosis?"

"Back pain."

Again he scoffed. "For a hospital admit? Idiots. They should have sent him to outpatient PT."

The OT shook her head. "Nope, it's severe back pain. Apparently they found him half drown in the marina. I'm assuming he's another fisherman."

I nodded. My clinical was located in Cape Ann Hospital. Cape Ann Hospital was located in Gloucester Massachusetts, just west of the Atlantic. Fishermen accounted for half of our caseload.

"Plus," the OT pointed to the sheet. "Just look at his comorbidities! This poor guy's got a bouquet of health issues!"

My clinical instructor twitched. 'Boquet' was not in his vocabulary. Begrudgingly, he skimmed the past medical history.

"Benign hypertension...chronophobia...migraines...scurvey...multiple laceration injuries…and…"

His eyebrows rose. "BEA? Really? That's a first."

"BEA?" I turned. "What's that stand for?"

My clinical instructor glanced over the sheet. "Below elbow amputation."

I ignored the 'you-should-have-known-that' voice.

"Which hand?" I asked, picturing a decrepit seaman. "Right or left?"

"Left."

"Does he have a prosthetic? A fake hand?"

My clinical instructor considered. His eyes flicked across the page. Then he handed me the sheet. "It's your patient. You're going to have to figure that out."

Meekly I accepted the sheet.

"Referring a student. Hmph." Accusingly my clinical instructor turned. "This is against APTA standards, I'm sure!"

"No." The OT corrected cheerfully. "It's perfectly legal. As long as you are within line of sight, she can treat whoever."

Smoke curled from his ears. We all knew he was losing the battle.

"Who recommended her anyway?"

The OT smiled. "A former patient. Mr. S? She treated him last week."

We blinked. She clarified for our confusion. "Oh you know. That sweet leprechaun of a man! Pudgey. Red nose. Knit cap." She looked at me. "You did a lot of balance training with him?"

I beamed. "Mr. Shmee?"

"That's right!" Enthusiastically she nodded. "Mr. Shmee! Lovely little man! Yes he was mighty impressed with you! He wrote a letter to the Head of Nursing, requesting…."

She made air quotes, "...that his friend be treated by the 'the little movement doctress.'"

I wanted to say "awww" so badly. But my clinical instructor looked ready to behead me, so I reminisced instead.

Mr. Shmee! Mr. Shmee was another fisherman, suffering from impaired balance. Obviously that's a dealbreaker on a boat. But luckily, the etiology of Mr. Shmee's bad balance came from the inner ear. With a little vestibular training he was out the door and ready to tightrope across the English Channel!

It had been a quick discharge. Done right, vestibular training can be cured within a few sessions. But I missed Mr. Shmee. He made me feel competent. He made me feel smart. Plus, he was the quintessential cute old man!

Marinating in uncharacteristic pride, I rewarded myself a big, fat, smile.

Pleased by my confidence, the OT continued.

"Apparently Mr. Smee is our new patient's health care proxy. So legally - " she glanced meaningfully at my clinical instructor. " - he has executive power to select which clinicians do and do not provide care."

I waited for my clinical instructor to kill me, the OT, or both. But he surprised me. Five flights later, we were outside my new patient's room.

"Okay." My clinical instructor leaned against the wall. Nurses passed over him like fish. "Go do your initial evaluation."

Frogs jumped in my throat. "Aren't you coming in with me?"

"No." He produced a stopwatch. Avoiding eye contact he reset the timer. "This is your referral, remember?"

"But-" I lifted the sheet. "But this is a complicated patient. He's pretty involved medically. What if I mess up?"

"Oh next session I'm going to reassess!" Cruelly, my clinical instructor laughed. "We just have to play this game since a specific referral was involved. So go ahead. Go do your initial evaluation. Remember, I want a complete subjective, objective, diagnosis, problem list, initial exercise prescription, and progression to functional independence all in half an hour. Got it?"

I bit my lip. "Um - "

"And don't forget goals." he added. "You forgot patient goals last time."

"Um - "

"Got it?"

Weakly, I consented. "Okay. Got it."

"Remember." he tapped the stopwatch. "Thirty minutes."

Sure. Thirty minutes. Drearily I opened the door. Like that's ever going to happen.

I entered. The room was like a dungeon. Lights were dimmed and blinds were drawn. Several buttons glowed on the standing IV, but otherwise it was dark. I squinted. The patient even had the covers clamped over his head.

Unperturbed I crossed the room. Right now I appreciated the dark. I had been so happy with Mr. Shmee's referral, and I assumed my clinical instructor would be impressed. But clearly he was just irritated, almost offended. He doubted me and my ability to handle this initial evaluation.

Sighing, I approached the bed. Yes, I was glad it was dark. I was too ashamed for happy thoughts.

"Hello? Hello?" I leaned over the bed. "Are you awake?"

The covers shifted. The patient groaned.

So far pretty normal.

"Hello?" Lifting my voice I hip checked the IV. Threading my way through the lines and tubes, I rubbed his shoulder through the covers.

"Hello? My name is Gwen and I'm going to be your student physical therapist this evening. I've been referred to see how you're moving and evaluate your back pain. Hello?"

The patient had not stirred. His breathing hadn't even changed.

Quickly I checked the monitor. Vitals were stable. I leaned closer to his ear.

"Hello? Mr…." I consulted my clipboard. "...Hook?"

The covers leapt. A blur of black hair and blue eyes knocked the wind right out of me.

"You may call me…" the patient said, catching my forearm with his prosthetic hook, "...Captain."

Well I just about had a stroke. For a moment I thought I did, partially from surprise and partially from irony.

Irony because this patient, Mr.- rather Captain Hook - looked the part.

Ridiculously looked the part.

First, there was the amputation. His left arm was braced with a prosthetic hook. No electronics. No pulley systems. No bells. No whistles. Just a hook.

Now, for average health insurances that was actually typical. Star Wars- myoelectric- bionic- what- have-you-hands do exist but only for those that can afford a $100,000 set back. So the fact that he had a hook prosthetic hand was not too astounding.

Regardless, other combining factors made this patient ironic. His hair was long, tangled, and black. His moustache was Clark Gable meets Sir Francis Drake. His semblance was sinister and dramatic. And his eyes were blue. Ocean blue with white needles stretched from a tiny, black pupil.

No one is more versed in fairytales than I. My great aunt lived 100 years in London and being of English heritage, told me the Peter Pan story until her dying day. I know it by heart. And this patient, the one calling himself Captain Hook, not only looked the part…

...he felt the part.

Mesmerized I stared.

Then I heard the stopwatch beep.

"Um…"

My clinical instructor had started the timer. I only had thirty minutes. There was no time to freak out.

"Um." Shaking my head, I relapsed into my 'initial evaluation speech.' "Hello Mr. Hook. My -"

"- Captain Hook."

"Um okay...Captain…" I cleared my throat. I couldn't look him in the eye. Too unnerving. "Well, um, my name is Gwen and I'm from physical therapy. I was referred by your healthcare proxy, Mr. Shmee, to ask you some questions and see how you are moving with your pain today - "

"I beg your pardon? You were sent by Smee?"

I nodded. "Yes. Mr. Shmee. I - "

"And you are from phys-i-cal therapy? Pray, what witchery is that?"

Again, not an uncommon question.

"I improve movement." I answered, flowing into one of my autopilot scripts. "Physical therapists treat impaired muscles, bones, balance, nerves - "

"Blasted how you prattle!" Mr. Hook shifted. He winced, jerking from his spine. Regaining his composure he returned to me. "So you are the young one Smee spoke of? The girl? The child?"

I bristled. "I'm twenty one."

"Worse." His eyes flickered. "A young woman."

I moved my arm from under his hook. "Mr. Hook. I - "

"- Captain."

"Captain." I said, lifting my clipboard. "I have some questions that I need to ask - "

"What name did you say?"

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Your name." Mr. Hook repeated impatiently. "Blasted girl! What is your name?"

I couldn't believe his rudeness. Still, however discourteous, the healthcare mantra maintains that 'the patient is always right.'

"Gwen." I pointed to my nametag. "My name is Gwen."

Mr. Hook's eyes narrowed to blue slits. Studying my badge, he read aloud. "Gwendolyn L. Darling. Student of Physical Therapy."

He looked up. "Why Gwen?"

"What?"

"Why Gwen?" he demanded, gesturing to my badge. "Your name is Gwendolyn. Why the devil would you go by Gwen?"

Frustrated, I frowned. "What else would I go by?"

Mr. Hook paused. Then he spoke in a hushed, almost delicate, voice.

"Wendy."

A cannon ball hit my chest. I knew - given the circumstances - his comment should have been weird. Creepy, more appropriately. But, it wasn't. Instead, it reopened a scab.

"My great aunt's name was Wendy."

Mr. Hook stared. "Was?"

Sadness vice gripped my chest. "She died." I said. "Recently."

Silence. Then, Mr. Hook (the jerk-face-creep) actually smiled.

"Well…" he said smugly. "I'm sure he'll consider that an unhappy thought."

My head snapped up. "What? Who?"

His smile widened.

"Incidental." Leisurely, Mr. Hook nodded at my clipboard. "Resume, Miss Gwendolyn. You are here to make me strong."

I glared. Infuriated by his insinuations and intrusiveness concerning my great aunt, I slapped the clipboard with my pen. "We'll see about that, Mr. Hook. Get up."

He started. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said…" pulling aside the sheets, "...get up. I can't treat without seeing how you move first. So come on Mr. Hook…"

I pointed at the floor. "Get up."

Mr. Hook's eyes flashed. Like a candle simultaneously lit and snuffed, his eyes flashed blood red.

I did not notice. And if I had noticed, I did not care. Saturated in anger, shame, self pity, and heartbreak I waited until Mr. Hook stood before me, hook, hospital gown and all.

"Okay." I scanned my clipboard. "You're having back pain?"

"Yes."

I set the clipboard down. "Upper back, middle, or lower?"

"Upper." he said, massaging his neck. Experimentally he moved. Again he flinched, catching his low back. "And lower."

My eyes darted over his spine. I had less than thirty minutes. "I can't treat both today. Which is worse?"

He considered. "Lower back."

"Okay." Inspecting his body like a machine, I motioned downward. "Bend forward, keep your knees straight, and try to touch your toes. Then come back up."

Mr. Hook scowled. Slowly bending forward and lifting back, he acquiesced.

"Mmmgh!" His eyes spasmed. Jerking sideways, he returned to upright.

I nodded. "Did that hurt?"

He gave me a lethal look. "Can you deduce?"

Stoically I nodded. I wrote a note.

Mr. Hook peered. "What are you scribbling?" he asked suspiciously.

I almost smiled, happily speaking in medical jargon. "Aberrant motion."

"And what the devil is that?"

"It means you came up with an abnormal motion. A twist. A catch. Plus there was pain." Curiously I formulated a list of possible diagnoses.

"Does the pain travel?" I asked, running a hand down the back of my leg. "Does it ever shoot up or down? Or does it stay in one place?"

Mr. Hook touched his spine. "It is stationary." he said.

"Right at that one spot?" I clarified, making a second note.

He leaned. Kudos to him for trying to read my penmanship. "Quite."

"I see." Setting down by pen, I turned.

"Can you rotate?" I said, demonstrating. "Rotate from your trunk, keeping your feet flat on the floor."

Again after major attitude, Mr. Hook acquiesced. He did not have pain, but twisted like a pretzel .

"Wow." I said, writing furiously. "Look at that motion! You're like a Twizzler!"

He was not amused. "I prefer sailor's knot."

Seamen. No sense of humor.

"Okay." I patted the bed. "Can you lay down?"

"You just dragged me up."

"Yes. But can you lay down? Please?" I added dryly.

Mr. Hook fingered his prosthetic. The hook puckered his skin. Then, moving like a snake, he lay back.

"When did your pain start?" I asked, gripping his ankle. Blocking knee motion, I lifted his leg. "How long ago?"

Mr. Hook tensed. I paused, then resumed when he relaxed.

"Forever." He watched me arch his leg until his hips passed an angle of ninety degrees. "Forever ago. Along with the blasted neck."

"Are you doing much turning?" I asked, lifting the other leg. Again, the hip flexed ninety degrees without pain. "Turning and twisting from the spine?"

"Turning. Yes." Suddenly he growled. "And looking up."

"Well," I speculated, "That could explain the neck pain. It all kinda makes sense. Okay, Mr. Hook. Last test. Can you lay on your stomach, hips, legs, and feet dangling off the bed?"

Mr. Hook hit the pillow.

"This is healing?" he demanded, pillow fluffing into the air. "Blast this lunacy! Are you not a doctor?"

"Nope." I said, more bitterly than intended. "I'm a student. So, last test. Edge of the bed please, Mr. Hook."

"Squabble me eyes!" Mr. Hook cursed all the way onto his stomach. "Between the devil and the deep blue sea. Mark my words, Gwendolyn my little miss, I'll have you walk the plank just like your - OW!"

"Did that hurt?" I asked, releasing pressure from his spine.

"AYE! AYE IT HURT!"

"Okay." I replaced my hand on his spine. "This is spot where it hurt…"

"You little wretch!"

Carefully, I positioned the heel of my hand. "Mr. Hook, hold the bed."

He did. "You little scrog!"

I probed the spinous bone before closing my eyes. "Mr. Hook, now lift your feet from the floor."

He did. "You miserable, wretched spawn of We -

I pressed the spinal vertebrae. Hard as I could.

Mr. Hook was silent.

"There…" I breathed, "...does that hurt?"

"...no."

Victoriously, I smiled.

"Okay." I rubbed his back. "I'm finished. You can sit up."

Mr. Hook rose. He gazed quietly as I prepared my clinical diagnosis.

"Those tests I performed…" I explained, cognizant of Mr. Hook's intense stare. "...are called 'cluster tests.' Researchers have found that when certain tests are positive, they are predictive of certain spinal disorders. You were positive for all of them…"

I counted on my fingers. "One, aberrant motion from spinal flexion. Two, hip flexion past ninety degrees with a straight leg raise. Three, positive prone instability test - the test I had you do on your stomach. You also look pretty close to 40 years old, which is another item in the cluster."

Mr. Hook nodded. His eyes gouged into mine. "Go on."

I opened my hands. "...my PT diagnosis is that you have spinal instability."

"Instability?"

"Yes." I motioned to my back. "The spine is supported by the core muscles. People typically think of 'the core' as the six-pack you see on models. But actually, the core is made up of muscles that go from your stomach and attach to your spine. The core also includes the pelvic floor muscles and diaphragm, but for your treatment we are going to focus on the deep abdominal muscles that connect directly to the vertebrae."

I encircled my torso, trying to sell my point. "The core is like a cylinder, or a muscular girdle. We just have to make it strong. If those muscles are strong, then they will be able to support your spine. That should decrease your pain."

I lowered my hands. "Does that make sense?"

Mr. Hook regarded me, and my diagnosis. In the dark I could almost hear the cogs ticking in his head.

Finally, Mr. Hook spoke.

"I will accept your services." he announced, extending his prosthetic hand, "Upon several conditions."

Excited that I nailed the evaluation, I grasped the hook. "Shoot."

Wickedly Mr. Hook grinned. "You've not yet heard my terms."

"I'm a student." I repeated, shaking his hooked hand. "I've got to pass this clinical. I can't afford to have morals."

Delight split Mr. Hook's face. "Splendid! Then you agree to make me strong - "

" - stabilized." I corrected. "But yes."

"And you agree to also cure my neck - "

"Yup." I said, "But one body part at a time."

"And you agree to restore my health -"

I grinned. This was great! He was feeding me all his patient goals! "That's the dream."

"And you agree to call me Captain - "

"Sure." I shrugged. "Why not?"

"And you agree…"

Mr. Hook pulled. He yanked me hard. My knees slammed against his, but he caught me with his staggeringly blue eyes.

"And you agree…" he hissed, hook twisting into my palm. "...to heal my body. So that I may defeat that blasted...blasted….Peter Pan."

Nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for that.

Or the bargain I made. The bargain that would change my life.

Forever.

"You're done? Hm." My clinical instructor clicked the stopwatch. He held it up. "Twenty nine minutes, fifty eight seconds. Right on time."

Apathetically he strode down the hall. "Nice job."

I followed, dazed. "Really?"

He nodded. "So far. Still got to treat and discharge. Which reminds me..."

Turning, my clinical instructor asked the question that I had been dreading. The question defining my evil bargain with the eloquent Captain Hook.

"How can you progress this patient to functional independence?"