Electricity hovered in the air in Street's hospital room, as he, for the first time since the loss of sensation, laid prone and without the back-brace on.

Something was wrong, he'd thought that morning when his physician had ended their session earlier than expected, telling him that the doctor would have paid a visit later that same day.

Street had spent the following hours staring at the IV pole and at the painkillers dripping from it in the thin tube connected to his arm. He could have better spent his time admiring the reflex of the sun dancing in the little park —visible from his window when his bed was up— but he honestly couldn't care less about the view. He could not shake off the feeling his caretakers were hiding something from him.

The fabric of the gown grazed Street's bare skin while sliding at his sides and a drought caressed him. He was brought back to the present as cold hands moved on his back, and he was not able to hold back a whine.

With no rush, the doctor proceeded further with his examination. Street's arms and abdominal muscles ached for the tension; pain expanded in waves from the center of his back. The silence grew audible, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

"What's wrong?" Street gritted his teeth while the nurse helped the brace back in its usual place and made him lay on his back again. "Something's wrong, I can read it on your face. Tell me!"

Dr. Bell waited until his patient was all settled again, then said, "This severe pain you are experiencing despite being four days from the abscess draining surgery suggests we should do more tests."

"What does that mean?" A lump formed in Street's throat. Deep down, he knew that all that pain was not normal, but until that moment he had not let his mind go there.

"Your nerves are not responding to the treatment the way we'd hoped, which may indicate permanent damages."

Street froze, his head spinning. "Wh—what? You all said I was doing good! I can, I—I can move, and—"

"Don't give up the hopes. Nerves are a tricky matter." The doctor placed a hand on Street's shoulder. "A couple more tests, then we'll adjust the therapy to your special needs."

"Special needs?" Street exhaled loudly, heavily abandoning his head on the pillow while his eyes went looking for comfort in the clear sky out the window.

Those words made him feel anything but special. They made him feel an invalid. And the doctor's hint about this invalidity to be permanent cast a shadow on his heart.

"As I said, do not worry before time. We'll know something more later this evening or at the latest, tomorrow. In the meantime, continue with your breathing exercise, and if you need, the nurse will administer you some more morphine."

A dreadful coldness crossed Street's body. "I'm sick of that."

Dr. Bell looked sternly at him. "Breathing exercises help both your body and your mind."

"The painkillers," Street said blankly with the eyes still fixed out the window. "They cloud my mind."

"Pain is bad for you re—"

Street glared at the man. "Stop repeating that and find what's wrong with me!"

A fast beeping drew the doctor's attention to the heart monitor. "Calm down now, Jim, or you'll force me to sedate you."

Permanent damages, special needs, new therapy, morphine, pain, sedatives... Street's head couldn't stop spinning. The doctor couldn't be serious, they didn't randomly sedate patients for a little agitation, but the man meant it all right, he needed to calm down. Street looked up to the ceiling and took a deep breath.

The beeping slowed to a more natural rhythm but still not completely steady. "I'm calm now," Street forced himself to say.

Doctor and nurse exchanged a look; there was something in it that Street didn't care to read.

"Someone will be here to take you to the MRI machine as soon as it's available."

Street turned his head to the window again, pain expanding from the center of his back for that little movement. How could it be at that point again? He was doing good, he was making progress. Painful progress, but still progress. But now...

How can it be? How can I live like this? Dizziness forced Street to close his eyes and seek refuge in the breathing exercises.

... ... ...

Chris gripped one hand to the passenger seat and the other to the car door while Hondo pressed his foot on the accelerator and turned the wheel. The siren resounded in the misty morning, overpowering the shrill of the tires on the concrete.

"Dang it!" Evans yelled from the back seat.

Almost at their reach there was a black Sedan, heading Downtown at full speed. From the rear-view mirror, Chris could see the car Luca was driving joining the chase with the rest of 20-David.

"We'll try to cut him off." Deacon's voice sounded from the radio, and immediately, his car disappeared in a side road.

It was a high-risk situation; they needed to stop the subjects before they reached a more populated area, but they didn't have much time. They surpassed a slower car, barely avoided a truck while passing with a red light, turned around a corner… Adrenaline flowed copiously in their veins, but after all, it was just their routine.

The thought of how Street would have enjoyed the chase darkened Chris's face. Head back in the game! She snapped out. There was no time to go there, her best friend would have to make do with her report afterward. They just had to make sure it would be a happy-ending story.

"It's coming toward you, guys," Hondo radioed.

Luca's car materialized in front of the Sedan. The car suddenly turned and screeched to a halt to not crash into the SWAT improvised roadblock. With a squeak, the car Hondo was driving did the same; the seat belt pulled on the cops' bodies, and for the fraction of a second breathing was hard. As they freed themselves and grabbed their guns, an expecting silence resounded.

A shot; then another one. 20-David's yells to stop and surrender came to little use. Another shot hit the car door before Chris. They all fired back. Chris held her gun tight; she pointed it straight; she pulled the trigger.

She was the one who took out the first subject, or at least that was what Chris would tell Street when retracing the events with him.

In less than one minute it was all over. One dead subject, another one injured, and two wiser accomplices arrested without a scratch for surrendering in time. No casualties and no further problems for the neighborhood. The only thing that would have put 20-Davids in trouble where the bullet holes in both their cars.

"How are we gonna explain this to the garage?" Luca said, checking for the damages.

"You think they still run?" Tan added, hopefully.

In the distance, Deacon and Evans handed the two subjects they stopped to some patrol officers while the injured one was loaded in an ambulance, accompanied by some other cop.

Luca hopped in the car, the roar of the engine sounding sweet to the guys' ears. He cracked a relieved smile. "This baby will not stop for some little scratch."

"Yeah, nothing that a little makeup can't cover, right?" Evans said rejoining the group.

Luca and Tan side-eyed him. Chris held back a huff. If Street had heard him speaking like that he would have gone mad. He adored those cars they had, taking care of them and even more, driving them.

Rain started to fall abundantly, suggesting it was about time to go back to the HQ. All the way back, Chris remained silent, staring at the metal wipers in function. The adrenaline had cleared her system, and now her heart could go back beating for her best friend. Street would have given anything to be there with them that day.

Before Chris's eyes, it loomed the image of an overtired Street placing a forcing smile on his face whenever he saw her or another of his teammates.

It had been like that every time she visited him lately. Perhaps —Chris weighed her options— telling Street the story of fast cars, shootings, and SWAT saving the day again without him was not the right move that day.

But for Chris, the only important thing was to just see her best friend.

... ... ...

Street's deep sighs ricocheted on the white walls of his stark room, scarcely illuminated by the dull morning lights. His chest hurt; in the last two days, he had not been allowed to do much more than lay still and breathe deeply. Physical therapy had been suspended, it caused his back to hurt too much. Not that waiting powerlessly was any less exhausting…

And the doctor still had to figure out where all that pain came from, as the MRI was inconclusive and the other results were not back yet.

For Street, those had been two days of reiterated tests. Two days of nurses and doctors talking under their breaths. Two days of relying on painkillers to just breathe without suffering too much. It had been two never-ending days of fear for the future, of brooding over the possibility he will never completely recover. Two days of hiding the frightening truth from his friends.

Staring impassively out of the window at the raindrops falling down from the gray sky, Street realized he had enough of deep breaths. He wanted the wheezing he had for chasing a suspect at full speed up a hill and the shortness of breath he had for lifting up weight in the gym, challenging Luca on who could lift more. He wanted the pain in the muscles he experienced after a round with Tan on the ring. He wanted—

The all too familiar background beeping with its increasing speed awoke Street from his daydream. Hands unconsciously clenched to the sheets and little sweat drops forming on his temples signaled him it was time for breathing exercises again.

If someone had entered the room at that moment, and he or she hadn't got the answers Street needed to hear, the unfortunate would have experienced Street's outburst.

All that uncertainty on his condition made Street's hidden emotions a bomb ready to explode.

Fortunately for her, when Beth walked through the door, Street had already managed to compose himself, turning back his focus to the rain that cushioned the sounds of the external world as well as the echo of his internal turmoil.

"Sorry for the delay, Jim. It has been a crazy morning out there," she said with a big but tired smile on her face.

Street cleared his voice to hide what was really going on inside him. "It's fine. It's not that I have something to do here, am I?"

"Oh." Beth looked him, sympathetic. "Nobody told you, I'm sorry. It really has been a hell today already."

Street raised an eyebrow, annoyed. "Told me what, now?"

Beth disappeared from his sight for a moment, and the back of the bed gradually reclined to a horizontal position.

"Tests results are back, and we finally have a plan of action for you." Beth's smiling green eyes reappeared. "Your physical therapist will explain everything in detail, he should be here any min—Oh, there he is."

A black man, around-forty, entered the room. "You must be Jim."

"Wait, where's Max?"

"Well, nice to meet you too, Jim. I'm Leon," said the man who couldn't look more different from the physician Street learned to know in the last week.

"He's an expert in the manipulation of the column and ultrasound therapy. The next step for you to help your nerves and bones recover."

While the man prepared the needed instruments, Beth carefully unleashed the back-brace. A whine, difficult to control, formed in Street's throat.

"We hope this therapy will help with the pain, too," the nurse went on, always smiling compassionately. "I'm gonna leave you two alone now, Leon will explain you everything you need to know."

Finally free from restrictions, Street's chest swelled up while he took yet another deep breath to contain his feeling of anxiety and confusion.

"Thanks, Beth," Street managed to say in a recovered moment of good manners right before the nurse left the room. Then his attention shifted to the therapist and the tools he brought along with him.

Leon laid his dark eyes on Street, unsheathing a very kind look, which probably meant to reassure his new patient, but didn't achieve its scope entirely.

While explaining Street the details of his care, the man's voice was deep and warm. The words he used were quite comprehensible, too, but when he had rattled off everything, Street's mind went blank. Too many information and too much technicality.

"Breathe, man." Leon thoughtfully patted Street on the shoulder. "All this just means that if you trust Max and I, and you commit to our instructions—and by that I mean you do exactly what we tell you when we tell you, no more, no less— then you'll be as good as new in about three months."

Street stared down at what he could see of his immovable body, feeling Leon's straight but encouraging look on him. His ears ringed; good as new was good indeed, but the three months part was terrifying enough. The last two weeks in these poor conditions already put a strain on Street, another three months like that? If he would not see at least some kind of progress soon —real progress— he didn't know if his will was strong enough.

"Do you have any questions?" The man's voice came. "Shall we start?"

Street kept staring blankly. "No— I mean, yes," he corrected himself, raising his look up to the therapist.

Leon laughed lightly. "It's okay, man. I know it's a lot to take in. You can ask me whatever you want whenever it comes to your mind," he said, disinfecting his hands. "Let's start rolling you on your stomach now. Nice and easy."

Leon said it and most surely meant it, but the rolling process went out not so easy and surely not nice for Street. Trying to hide and bear the pain, the three months prognosis came back to haunt him.

"Alright, now that you're in position," Leon said, shifting Street's gown open, "we can start with a little manipulation. Just breathe steadily and try to relax."

As the man's big hands touched his skin Street winced and whined in pain.

"Sorry, too cold?" Leon said, rubbing his hands together.

"No," Street said between clenched teeth as the man laid his hands on him again. "It's fine."

"I see; tenderness and high sensitivity." Leon sighed. "Opposite of what we'd hoped, this won't be an easy one for you, I'm afraid. But it should not be a problem for you, SWAT officer. Am I wrong?"

Street could not say a single word, all focused as he was on not whining like a fussy baby while the man carefully proceeded with the manipulation of his back, hurting him more than he'd expected. How all this would help with the pain when it caused him so much struggle for just a back massage was a total mystery.

"Please, try to relax, Jim. Contracting your muscles will only make the process more difficult for both of us."

How the heck should I relax while you're torturing me? Street would have said, but opening his mouth would have only led him to let out the cry he was so desperately trying to hold back.

"I'll say a five-minute massage is enough for this first session."

Street could not feel the therapist's warm hands on him anymore.

"This next part will be a little trickier, at least for this first time."

Leon disappeared from Street's eyesight only to come back carrying a chart with a little machine on it.

"But don't you worry, you'll get used to it pretty fast. It's not too complex, you see." The man showed him some kind of a stick with a metal blunt tip. "This is a transducer," he said, spreading gel on the tip. "This will help the transmission of the ultrasonic waves."

Street winced when the cold, wet tool made contact with his skin.

"Oh, don't worry, it'll warm up pretty soon. Actually that's what it does, mostly." Leon started slowly rubbing the transducer on his patient's skin. "You proved to be though, but if the heat becomes too much, tell me immediately."

Street felt the pressure on his back, not as strong as the previous part of the therapy but still uncomfortable. He tried to enjoy the warmth propagating to his back, but soon the tool heated up more than he thought it could. "It's hot..."

"Oh. Already? It must be the high sensitivity of your nerves." The therapist moved the tool on Street's skin, dwelling for a shorter time on each spot. "I'm sorry, this is the fastest I can go. I assure you this is perfectly safe, though. Your feelings must be amplified by the lesion, but I know what I'm doing. Just hang on a little longer."

Street closed his eyes, that was not much of a consolation. He wasn't one to surrender easily, but this... He couldn't hold back a whine. "Sorry. It is really hot."

"Alright." Leon lifted the transducer and turned off the machine. "We'll try again tomorrow. I can't promise it will be less painful, and I can't promise I will stop this soon the next time, but you always tell me when something is wrong, okay?"

"That doesn't sound encouraging..." Street said. And they told me this would help me with the pain... he added in his mind.

"It will go better. I promise." Leon gently dried the gel from Street's skin. "Patience is the key."

Patience... that word again. He'd never been good at that.

... ... ...

The locker room door crackled open; with an odd coldness hovering in the HQ corridors, Luca zipped up his jacket before getting out of the room. The commotion of the day was over, he acknowledged, enjoying the quiet, and since there were not active calls going on, 20-Davids were allowed to enjoy the evening as they pleased.

"I'm sneaking pizza into Street's room, someone wants to come?" Luca said, leaving the empty locker room behind.

Tan raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Street needs some real food. He's been eating that hospital crap for over two weeks now, I bet he's tired of that."

Tan smirked. "And pizza is real food?"

"You know what I mean, something that doesn't taste like cardboard," Luca said as they headed to the main entrance. "You're coming or not?"

"Well, if that bossy nurse —Cindy?— is on shift tonight, I won't miss you trying to fool her guard."

"What about you?" Luca turned back to his other teammate, who was silently walking along with them. "Chris?"

"Uh?"

"You coming?" he repeated.

Chris halted, forcing Luca and Tan to wait for her. The quiet all around was now starting to weigh. She looked up at the guys. "Do you think Street's doing good?"

"Yeah," Luca said, baffled. "Yeah, he is... I mean, he's eating more willingly now, recovering his strengths. Therapy is progressing, and he always has a smile for us when we go visit, doesn't he?"

"It seems." Chris sighed. "But he's always tired." She peered deeply at his mates. "And always hiding pain. At least he tries to, but with not much success. Haven't you noticed?"

Luca shook his head. "It is normal. The new cycle of therapy is more challenging, and he's pushing himself hard to be back to us."

Chris sighed once again, louder. "Too hard maybe?"

Luca held his breath; he hated how all his teammates kept suggesting that.

With the guy's looks on her, Chris continued, "I'm concerned he is. I don't know, but when I visited him the other day he seemed weary and jumpy. More than usual."

Tan's eyebrow scrunched together. "Wait. You're saying he's keeping something from us?"

Chris looked his two teammates in the eyes, alternatively; genuine apprehension shone through.

"Enough with the speculations! Just let's go see ourselves," Luca stated, starting to move again, and they all silently agreed.

... ... ...