Dib's hypothesis about better prosthetics was correct. On Christmas morning, he unwrapped a leg made of a clear plastic that had a similar weight to his remaining leg; it felt much more natural than his old prosthetic. The ankle joint also had greater dexterity, to help with balance.
His father had outdone himself on the arm, however. He took Dib down to the lab to fully attach it. The outer layer was completely waterproof—it needed to be, since it would hopefully be a permanent attachment. After the uncomfortable process was complete, the professor had Dib perform a few rudimentary motions. Dib was amazed to see that he could command the fingers, wrist, and elbow to bend and flex at will. It didn't react as perfectly as his normal arm would have, but it was leagues better than the jointless plastic he'd been wearing before. He moved to embrace his father, but the professor stopped him and simply patted his head instead, not wanting him to test the new arm too vigorously.
"I hope to have a permanent leg attachment ready for you early next year as well. For now, I have just a few more things for you," the professor said. He pulled out a tube of whitish gel. "This may help reduce the visibility of your scarring."
"Thank you, Dad," Dib sighed, grateful that he had a father who could churn out such advanced technologies for him on a whim.
"One last thing," the professor said. He disappeared for a moment and when he returned he held a rectangular package that Dib took into his lap. He carefully removed the shiny paper to reveal a thick zippered case made of faded brown leather. He unzipped it and was surprised to find it full of CDs, tucked away in transparent plastic sleeves.
His father spoke before he could ask about it. "Those belonged to you mother. I thought you could use them more than I could, since you're going on this trip."
"These…were Mom's?" Dib asked, almost in a whisper. He leafed through the weighty pages, taking in the assortment of albums and movie soundtracks from the 60s to the 90s. Some he knew, most he didn't—he'd never been much of an audiophile. Not like his mother had apparently been.
His father simply nodded. He cleared his throat. "Son, I'm happy you're striking out on your own in the pursuit of higher knowledge. After…well, it's good to see you're still looking forward."
Dib stared at his father, trying to read any emotion past the thick safety goggles. The moment ended when the professor put a hand on his son's shoulder and suggested they head back upstairs before Gaz had a chance to eat all the Christmas cookies.