A/N: This chapter takes place Tuesday, September 20, 2016.

Danny sighs as Nate puts away the x-rays he'd had that morning. "I'm just frustrated, that's all. I broke my ankle ten weeks ago, I thought I'd be back to…normal by now."

"You actually got approved to put weight on it exactly six weeks after surgery—so that was good. It's the other setbacks you've had that have…slowed things down: trying to put weight on the foot before you should have, spraining it twice, getting kicked out of physical therapy," Nate says with a smirk. "You're going to be at 50% weight-bearing for another week, then 12 days with one crutch and putting 75% of the weight on your left ankle, then no crutches and just the boot. But then you have to wean off the boot—which could be another 4-6 weeks."

His head's spinning with all the numbers and percentages and times, and he wishes Linda were there. She'd stepped out of the room for a minute to make a phone call to work.

He's glad they're not in the big gym yet—he doesn't wanna have this conversation about the timeline of his healing in front of all those other patients.

"When can I go back to work?"

"Maybe when you're 100% weight-bearing, we'll talk about driving, but it'll take time for you to work up to it. And even then you'll be on modified, obviously, until the boot is off and you're 100% back to normal."

He looks at the calendar. "So we're talking…practically the end of November?"

"If nothing else happens."

He sighs. "Just my crappy luck, something probably will. November's…when we lost the most Marines in…Fallujah. Does $#!++y things to my head, my sleep."

"So…don't push yourself. Does Dawson know?"

He shrugs. "I wanna be back on the job before Christmas. Full duty, no boot, nothing. Running down criminals, no *** flashbacks or nightmares."

"That's a tall order to ask anyone but the Lord."

"Dammit, Nate! Do you think I can get there or not?"

"If you do your PT—here, and at home—if you're careful when you're walking and don't sprain it again, and if you're honest with Dawson."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snaps, flinching as Nate starts flexing his ankle.

"I mean, whatever mental block you have…"

"O ***, Nate! I had a *** breakdown on 9/11, what Linda called a repressed memory, and totally freaked out in Doc's office the next day. That mental block is *** gone! I *** wanna get better so I can stop remembering that *** repressed memory!"

"You have to remember before you can move on."

He grabs his crutches, ready to bolt (well, hobble) to the car and drive himself and the crutches off the nearest bridge—but then Linda is there, standing in front of him with her hands on his shoulders, keeping him from standing up from the bench. "Stop, Danny, stop!"

"I don't *** need three people shrinking my head! Doc's bad enough, it's bad enough you know all the gory details…I don't *** need this…cripple…giving me…*** psychobabble!"

"Daniel Fitzgerald Reagan!" Linda snaps, and he realizes what he'd said. The word he's applied to himself…what he considers himself because of his injury…he just insulted an American hero with that word? He's a selfish...

"Nate, man…I'm sorry. I didn't…"

Nate makes eye contact with him. The pain in his eyes is…overwhelming.

"Apology accepted. I've been called worse, Danny, both in reference to the leg, and…because of the color of my skin. I know you're pissed at me—you thought I'd help you rush back to full duty. But I've been right where you are. When I was learning to walk with this"—he puts a hand on his prosthetic leg—"I plateaued more than once. And it was usually because of something I didn't want to face with my therapist. Do you have the folder of at-home exercises I gave you?"

He nods. Great, Nate's kicking him out, too.

"How often are you seeing Dawson?"

"Once a week."

"You need to take a break from PT. Focus on healing…up here," Nate says, tapping his forehead, "and in here." He taps his chest. "Tell Dawson you plateaued. If he's anything like my shrink, he'll want to do therapy twice a week, and it's going to be hard, and it's going to be intense, and you're gonna thank for not making you come here, too. When he says you're ready to come back to PT, call me."

"You're kicking me out?"

"No, I'm telling you that you need to focus on your psychological healing. Work through this memory with Dawson, keep doing the at-home exercises, and come back when Dawson says you're ready."

He nods silently, and puts his sock and brace and boot back on. If he were a betting man, he'd bet $100 that Nate will file a complaint against him before the end of the day.

He wonders if his off-duty weapon is still in the safe at home…