July 14th

It's another day crammed with vast quantities of boredom in ye olde medical center. Greg sits in his office, after most of a day spent in the administration of vaccines to the spawn of half the population of the southern Adirondacks. It's the one time he's grateful for the lab coat he so rarely wears; he donned it in anticipation of infantile bodily fluids, and his expectations were not disappointed.

Now he's got the iPod cranked as he listens to the Traveling Wilburys. He munches what's left of the cookies Sarah packed for him, plays air guitar along with 'She's My Baby' and enjoys the delightful if transitory sense of freedom. In another couple of hours he'll be home to do just what the song suggests, and he can't wait. The mere thought of Roz's long, sunbrowned legs tangled with his makes him wish his imagination wasn't so powerful. His wife had stopped by at two, shared lunch with him in the break room while perched on his good thigh, and offered up kisses so hot he'd almost melted into the chair. If this is the result of her talk with his shrink, he's all for it and more besides.

"She likes to stick her tongue right down my throat/She's my baby," he sings along with the track, and looks up when someone fills the doorway. To his surprise it's Gene. Sarah is right behind him. With care Greg takes his legs off the desk and removes the earbuds.

"Come back with a warrant," he says, and shuts off the iPod.

"Got some news." Gene comes in to claim one of the visitor's chairs Wirth forced on Greg months ago. Sarah takes the other one. She looks more excited than Greg's ever seen her.

"I guess so, if you both had to come all the way across town to deliver it instead of calling," he says, unable to figure out what's going on. No bad vibes from either party, though. "Do tell."

For answer Gene reaches into the soft-sided brief he's brought with him and draws out an article that's been photocopied from some journal. "Will faxed this over about an hour ago."

Greg accepts it and does a quick skim-read. At the second paragraph he stops. His heart skips several beats, then gives a great thump as the information sinks in. He lifts his head to spare Gene a hard stare. "How many humans involved?" he snaps. His hands shake a little.

"Four," Gene says. "Two years and no side effects. They've all regrown a significant amount of muscle and are continuing to do so. It's a tiny sample, yeah. But significant."

Greg returns his gaze to the paper, taking in the pertinent facts. When he's done he tosses it to the desktop. "I want in."

Gene leans back. "Will sent the forms too. Fill 'em out, sign and you're in like Flynn, man. There's only one condition."

"Shit," Greg groans. He's ready to grab that briefcase and snag a flight to wherever the trials are held. "I knew there'd be a catch."

"Talk with me about this first," Sarah speaks for the first time since her arrival. "I have some suggestions on how to proceed."

"I don't need counseling!" Greg gets to his feet, unable to sit. "I need this!"

"Greg." Sarah waits until he at last gives her his attention. "You have other considerations to deal with first before you make the commitment to the trial."

He glares at her, not ready to admit she's right. He also sees why she and Gene chose to deliver the news here; it's to remind him he has responsibilities he can't just abandon, as much as he'd like to in the heat of the moment.

But even they don't understand, they'll never understand. This is his damn leg. He's lived with this hole in his life, and the immense pain it causes, for so long now it seems like an eternity. And yet the hell of it is, he can still remember what it was like to move without a limp, without pain, without any thought of caution and dammit, he wants that back now!

Greg thumps his cane hard on the floor. He resists the urge to hurl it through the window and run the way he used to, run until his need for oxygen outstrips his body's capability to keep up and he has to stop, while his heart thunders in his chest, every part of him vibrant with life. The shakes are worse now; he can feel an anxiety attack edge closer. His blood pressure's up and he feels claustrophobic.

"Here." Gene has a bottle of water and an Ativan in his hand. He puts them on the desk, so it's a choice and not an order. With reluctance Greg takes the pill and dry-swallows it, a half-defiant gesture.

"Why don't you and Roz come over tonight?" Sarah says. "We'll do dinner and talk about this afterward. Gene and I are willing to help in any way you need us."

Greg sits down once more. He watches the couple on the opposite side of the desk. They sit there together, both of them ready to support him. The anxiety turns to tightness in his throat but it isn't related to the apprehension. This is something different he doesn't want to name.

"'kay," he says. Just the thought of discussion about this, in the place he's come to consider his first real home, helps ease the tension inside. He relaxes a little. "Yeah . . . let's do that."

"Cool." Gene gets up but Sarah stays where she is. Greg glances at her.

"I don't need a babysitter," he says sharply.

"That's good, because I don't plan to be one," she says calmly. Her sea-green eyes spark with affection. "I think we should talk a little before the big powwow tonight. Okay?"

He knows it's wisdom to do as she asks, even as he balks at the little-kid treatment. Gene gives him a nod. "See you later," he says, and then flashes that pirate's grin. "Hey man. This is a good thing, don't forget."

Once he's gone and the door's closed, Sarah says "How much of your break do you have left?"

He glances at his watch—the one she gave him for Christmas a couple of years ago, with all the bells and whistles most runners love. The memory and knowledge of her faith in his healing steadies him. "I can take another ten minutes, Singh's covering for me."

"All right. I'll just mention this one item, and we can talk about everything else later after supper." She leans back a bit. "I would suggest you postpone getting the clinic up and running for a while."

Greg stares at her, and waits for more. She says nothing. "That's it?" he says after a moment. "That's your big idea? This one item?" He puts plenty of sarcasm in the question.

"Yes," Sarah says calmly. "You've gone through huge changes over the last year. Now you're looking at the biggest change of all. I believe it's too much."

"Because I'm such a weak sister," he says. His father's voice echoes in his head: you never could deal with difficulties, Greg. It takes self-discipline to do that, and you have none.

"You have more courage than John House ever dreamed of." Sarah reads his thoughts, the way she sometimes does. "Anyone would have a tough time handling everything that's gone on in just the last year alone."

His anxiousness recedes further, helped along by her calmness and the Ativan, no doubt. "So you think I should give it up for now."

"I think it would be wise to make some choices that will give you the best chance at success. You're doing well working here, though I know you're bored out of your mind and ready to get back to solving puzzles." Sarah smiles at him. "I'm not saying you should give up working on the clinic. Just set the date back. When you're approved for the trial you'll be focused on rebuilding the muscle after the initial surgery anyway, and that's exactly what you should be doing."

"You . . . you think they'll approve me, then." He can barely get the words out.

"Yeah, I do," Sarah says. "We have good records for you. You've got MRIs and x-rays from your last visit with Will six months ago and everything looks good. Your liver enzymes have stayed in the normal range for well over a year and it looks like you're healing what damage there is. Along with the genetic testing, everything indicates the blood clot wasn't a manifestation of disease or predisposition."

"I'm an addict," he says. "That has to count against me."

"About that . . . I want you to meet one of the trial participants," Sarah says. "He's an addict too. Three tours of Iraq. At the end of the last one he got hit by shrapnel and lost a chunk of his right thigh. The injury is in pretty much the same place as yours and about the same size. He's just had the second surgery done and he's staying at the VA hospital in Albany for a couple of weeks."

"A vet," Greg says. He's not thrilled at the thought of another career idiot like his dad.

"Greg," Sarah says, and waits until he looks at her. "Don't judge him."

"Come on, you don't know him," he snaps. "Don't give me that oorah crap."

"I'm not. No, I don't know him. And neither do you." She's firm but gentle. "Just think about it." She glances at his watch. "Time's up. See you tonight."

After she's gone Greg sits in the quiet office. He listens to the distant sounds of activity in the front bays; the frantic wails of babies and young children as Singh vaccinates them while their parents offer comfort, the talk and laughter of a pair of nurses as they pass by, an unanswered phone somewhere. It all seems so ordinary, and yet reality has taken another major shift to a place he'd never dared hope would ever come into existence. It's too big to take in, too much to believe. He gets up and limps to the door and back to work, struggles against the desire to hop into Barbarella and drive all the way to Pittsburgh, pound on the door of the clinic doing the trial and beg, borrow, steal or bluster his way into the proceedings. It will take everything in him to bide his time. He's not sure he can do it.

When he arrives home two hours later, it's to find Roz's truck parked in front of the house. She's been home at five every weeknight for two weeks now, just as she promised. He pulls the car into the drive, shuts off the engine and sits there for a moment before he gets out and heads inside.

She's in the kitchen with ingredients for tonight's supper; she wears the lacy black tank top and short cutoffs that often fuel his fantasies about her. He limps to the doorway and stands there, watches her. Roz turns her head to smile at him, and it strikes Greg that she has never greeted him with a torrent of information about her day or demands for attention; mostly he gets a kiss and a welcome, and then she waits for him to talk to her.

"Hey amante," she says, and then she stops. Her smile fades as she studies his face. "What is it?" she asks after a moment, and he knows one of the reasons why he loves her: she doesn't assume the worst when she realizes something's up.

"Gene and Sarah came to see me at work a couple of hours ago," he says, and keeps an eye on her expression. "Reynard faxed them some information on a clinical trial . . ." His throat dries up; he can't get the rest of the words out.

The next thing he knows, he sits at the little breakfast table with Roz across from him. She holds his hands, palm against palm. "Take your time," she says in her quiet way.

"Someone's found a way to regrow muscle," he says at last. "They've started trials on humans. My . . . my doctors . . ." He's never really thought of Sarah, Gene and Reynard quite that way, but they are. "They believe I'd be accepted if I applied."

Roz's green eyes open wide. Shock is quickly followed by astonishment and then elation, a joy so powerful he blinks. And then she says, "How can I help?"

That simple question floors him. He doesn't know how to answer. Instead he tightens his hold on her hands a little. He can feel her mutilated finger pressed against the outside of his wrist. She understands what physical loss means, the pain and limitations imposed by random fate; Gene and Sarah do too, but he isn't married to them. It's as if he's opened a drawer and found a treasure he believed lost, when it was his own carelessness that caused the mistaken impression of loss in the first place. "Sarah wants us to come over for dinner," he says. She nods.

"Okay. I can be ready to go in ten."

She's as good as her word. About twenty minutes later they're in Sarah's kitchen and Gene says "Steaks are almost done, grab a plate and get started."

After supper they sit in the living room in a loose circle. The All-Star game replay is on in the background.

"We'll both advocate for you," Gene says. "You're a good candidate for this trial."

"Age," Greg says, determined to find the obstacle he knows lurks in the background somewhere.

"You're fifty-three. If you'd continued on the course you were following when we first met, I'd say you wouldn't make old bones," Sarah says. "Things are different now."

"This is a long-standing injury," he says.

"Shouldn't make a difference," Gene says. "We might have to add in some weightlifting eventually to get your bone density back to par, but you've been keeping fairly active since you got here. I don't think that will be much of a problem."

"What if it doesn't work?" That's what has his hands sweaty and his mind on fire with alternate hope and fear, both of which he detests.

"Then you should be no worse off than you were before," Sarah says. "There's no way to know, because the protocol's been successful in all the animals and in each human so far. It's a risk you'll have to take."

"Yeah, because 'no worse off' is such a great place to be," he snarls at her. She doesn't flinch.

"It is, actually." She sits back and watches him. "Seems to me it's a small risk at this point. You'd be better served to keep your focus on success."

Silence falls over the room.

"When can I expect an answer?" Greg asks finally.

"Will's said he'll do his best to expedite your entry," Gene says. "He's got a lot of pull with these guys. Apparently they went to school with him. I'd say two weeks."

Two weeks . . . an eternity. He'll explode with impatience before the first day's up.

"Road trip," Sarah says. "I want you to meet Eric. That should take up a few days and keep you from heading off to Pittsburgh on your own."

She knows him too well. "Bullshit," he says. Sarah grins at him.

"Come on, it'll be fun. We'll go on the weekend and Gene and Roz can go with us if they like."

"What can we do in the meantime?" Roz asks.

"We need to talk with Diane about scheduling time off," Sarah says. "Greg would have the initial surgery and then probably another one farther down the road, to deal with the scar tissue from the old injury. And he'll be in PT as well." She smiles at Roz. "You've got everything on one floor at your place, that's a big help."

"I was thinking . . . maybe Greg would rather stay here for a week or two after the first surgery," Roz says. He looks at her, surprised. She gives him a glance; there's no resentment or self-doubt in her eyes. "You're more comfortable here," she says. "I can come over and stay with you if it's okay with Sare and Gene."

She really meant it, he thinks. She wants to help.

"Of course it is," Sarah is saying. "It's up to you, Greg. You know our home is yours too. That goes for both you and Roz."

"Only if you bring the damn cat," he says finally.

Later on, when they're back home and ready for bed, Roz goes to the bookshelf. She chooses a tome with care. Greg loves to tease her about how she treats her reads with such reverence, but actually he likes it.

When she comes over he can see she has Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. "Oh god," he groans, though it's just for show. She read him the first book some time ago; while he prefers Jack Cannon, he has to admit the Harry Potter series is not that bad after all. He enjoys it when she reads to him because she likes to stop and discuss plot points, symbology, deeper meanings, and more. She's an intelligent, insightful and articulate reader, and if he's honest he's ashamed of himself for his presumption. She's no unlearned small-town girl.

Roz ignores his jibe and opens the book toward the end. "There's something I want you to hear," she says, and turns a few pages before she stops. When she begins to read, it's the passage with Dumbledore and Harry in the Headmaster's office, discussing Harry's similarities to Voldemort. Greg listens to a few lines, then says "What's this supposed to illustrate?"

Roz pauses, then says slowly, "'It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.'" She closes the book. "I know you're scared to feel any kind of hope that this new medicine will work. I know you're afraid you'll come home with nothing. But you're choosing to go ahead with it anyway." Her hand comes to rest on his arm. "Definitely a Gryffindor," she says, and offers him a smile.

"Ravenclaw," he retorts, and lies back to watch her.

"Books and cleverness," she says. "You're much more than that. This isn't just about your head, your heart is involved too. I'm glad you're listening to both." She puts the book on the nightstand. "Nox," she says to make him chuckle, turns out the light and lies next to him. "Whatever happens, it'll be all right," she whispers, and kisses his cheek before she puts her head on his shoulder and drops off. He lies in the soft summer darkness for a long time, his mind at sixes and sevens as it takes bits of information and plugs them into models, theories, extrapolations, until tiredness claims him too and he slips into sleep.