Twenty minutes after they've gotten home, Linda comes downstairs to find Danny asleep on the couch, paperwork from the PT strewn across him and the floor.
She picks up all the papers, sighing when she sees the top left corner ripped off. Why did you take the staple out, Danny? They were nice and organized, and now…they're not.
She gets them back in order, re-reading the instructions for today: 25% of his body weight on the left foot, in the boot, with crutches.
She sighs. "I'm sorry, babe," she whispers. "I shouldn't have tried to go to Target. I'm just…still not used to seeing you so…"
She doesn't want to say "weak," because he isn't; but he's in pain, and his stamina is way less than normal, and he's still connecting this ankle injury to the one in Fallujah which is not helping his physical recovery, and he was arguing with the PT earlier. If she knows Danny—and she does, after almost 20 years of marriage—he's going to do one of two things: 1) refuse to do the stretches and exercises because he thinks they're ridiculous, and make his ankle worse; or 2) put too much weight on his ankle too early because he thinks he can—and make his ankle worse. This is going to be a lose-lose situation.
When he wakes up, she gives him a glass of ice water. He drains it, groans when he sees the scale and the crutches. "I have to do that again?"
"Yeah, then we'll go upstairs and get you that bath you wanted."
He's sweating by the time he's figured out how to only put 25% of his weight on his left foot.
He sinks into the hot water, leaning back into Linda's arms. "God this feels amazing."
She kisses the back of his head. "You've got knots everywhere—your neck, shoulders, back. Want me to rub them out? It's gonna hurt."
"Yes, please," he says. "How did you get so good at this?"
"Took a couple classes in massage therapy one summer."
"And you never told me?"
She kisses him. "No need—you've been enjoying the benefits for all these years."
He nods, yelps when she presses on a particularly tight knot.
"'M sorry, babe. How's your leg?"
He shrugs, tries to roll it around like the PT had said. "It hurts. It's been six weeks; shouldn't it be mostly healed?"
"It was a bad break, Danny. And you tried walking on it before you were supposed to."
He sighs. "You know about that?"
"Yeah, babe, I've seen you put weight on it—and Dr. Conti said there were signs you'd been testing it out before you should have."
He sighs. "But I can put weight on it now, right?"
"25% of your body weight, which is why you have to use that scale until you get a feel for putting 75% of your weight on the crutches and your good foot, and the rest on your bad foot."
He groans. "Why couldn't they have just cut the damn foot off?"
"Danny! Now you're really overreacting, babe. I know you're bored and…frustrated, but you need both feet to be a detective. I'll go to the library while you're talking to Doc later, get you some detective novels so you can critique how they do everything, and maybe find us something to watch."
"Where are the boys?"
"Henry took them fishing; they'll be home in time for dinner, which I need to get started on."
"What time is Doc coming?"
"He said 4."
Great.
Twenty minutes later, they're both dressed and he's on the couch, hoping to squeeze in another nap before Doc shows up with questions he does not want to answer.