Eventually, both patient and doctor had to admit that, for now at least, the stranger's memory was out of reach. For lack of any other name, the crew called him Paolo, as Giovanni had suggested. Giancarlo didn't like it—all it will do is confuse the patient and make it harder for him to pinpoint who he really had been before his accident, he argued—but he had to concede the point that it was too difficult to leave the man without a name. Still, he tried not to use it if he could help it, instead referring to him by the amiable and rather fatherly nickname "my boy."
After his awakening, the patient remained abed for only three more days, and then he was up and about: exploring the boat, meeting the crewmen—who had noticeably relaxed when they saw that he was, indeed, just another man like them—and watching the work from the relative comfort of the main cabin. At first Giancarlo worried that the man was being dangerously rash, too impatient to care about his convalescence; but after stepping back and inspecting his behavior, the doctor realized that the stranger was merely testing himself, his body, his limits. Once he had established those limits, he would push just a little bit beyond them—never enough to risk re-injuring himself, but rather enough so that Giancarlo noticed a small but marked and steady improvement in his physical strength day by day by day.
Only once did the doctor make the mistake of attempting to check up on him, on the first day that the patient was up and about. Giancarlo had found him alone in the kitchen after the men had finished their lunches and gone back to their labor.
"All right, my boy, time to take a look at how you're healing."
The stranger turned to face him, leaning back against the countertops, arms crossed over his chest. He looked so casual, unconcerned, that Giancarlo didn't realize until later that the position had been defensive.
"I already checked," said the stranger. "It's fine."
Humoring him, Giancarlo smiled and approached, reaching out a hand. "Still, I'd just like to—"
His grip was firm around Giancarlo's wrist, a warning. "It's fine."
The doctor paused, met the other man's eyes. Then he relaxed, nodding his head—"Okay. Okay. I believe you."—and the man released him. For a moment both stood in tense silence.
"I appreciate your concern," said the man at last, "and all you've done for me so far. But I know a little bit about medicine, and would prefer to oversee the details of my recovery myself."
"Of course," said Giancarlo. "I didn't mean to impose."
Then the man gave a small, careful smile, and Giancarlo offered a nervous huff of laughter, and when they left the kitchen, both went separate ways.