August 12th

Something gradually nudges Greg awake, a persistent sensation that pushes through the weird dream he's in, and brings him to full consciousness. Slowly he props himself up on his elbow and feels his scarred thigh with a careful hand. It's not hot or feverish. He glances over at Roz. She's asleep, curled up spoon-fashion but apart from him. She came home with a mild case of heat exhaustion from too many hours in some idiot's unventilated attic. He'd encouraged her to go to bed early after he'd made sure she was hydrated; now she's completely relaxed, her breathing slow and even.

He climbs carefully from the bed and stands up, and prays he won't get hit with a spasm or cramp. There are no warning signs though, no tremors or flickers of pain; it feels a bit like the descriptions of restless leg syndrome he's heard patients talk of, a powerful, almost irresistible urge to move the affected limb. With some caution he limps through the darkened room to take a leak and wash his hands, splash cold water on his face. Sufficiently awake for the moment, he heads off into the living room.

For a while he prowls back and forth in front of the television. He watches whatever he can find on at this hour. It isn't much—even with full cable and hundreds of channels, there's little to interest him. Eventually he turns off the tv and looks at the piano, but he needs to be active.

Finally Greg slips his feet into his flip-flops, grabs his cane and goes out on the front porch. It's a nice night; the humidity has moved out for a day or so after the storm that came through earlier, and there's a soft cool breeze. This is more like it. He takes a deep breath, enjoys the savory pungency of the basil Roz has in planters on either side of the steps, and heads off for a walk.

He has to go slowly because the sidewalk's uneven and there's not much light, but that doesn't seem to matter; movement is all that's required. The compulsion fades somewhat as he eases his way down the street. Above him the trees toss their leaves with a soft rustle; just beyond their reach is a sky full of stars, visible because the streetlights don't extend down this far from the village center. He pauses now and then to look at them, which gives his good leg a rest.

He rambles around the block twice. By the time he reaches the house again he needs to sit. He chooses the steps and winces as his calves and hamstrings give a few warning twangs. His meds have been stepped up a bit, because while he's been cleared to wear the TENS unit during the day as usual, it's on lowered settings. His pain levels are somewhat elevated, nothing he can't handle, but a stroll will exacerbate things. Not to mention he's out of shape for extended walks.

Still, as he stretches his damaged leg out in front of him and enjoys the cool breeze, he thinks of what the future could hold. With the quadriceps regrown in full or even in part, he'll probably walk without much of a limp, maybe none at all. Perhaps he'll be able to actually run.

That stops him for a moment: the possibility of a daily run, the late evening kind—five, six miles on a good night—and in this small village there'd be little to no traffic, with plenty of choices for routes so he could vary his routine enough to keep boredom at bay . . . He breathes deep, remembers the glory of heart and legs as they pump, sweat beaded on his forehead and arms.

And he could participate in sports again, some slow-pitch softball or golf. He doesn't have any illusions about lacrosse or football, he's not up for that much rough play anymore, though a part of him longs to participate in the rough and tumble, the sheer physicality. The reality is that when he gets up in the mornings now, he can feel the stiffness in his joints, the aches and pains of a body grown older, less supple. He's not decrepit by any means; certainly Roz hasn't complained when they make love, even when he has trouble with the whole procedure. But he's also not thirty-five anymore either.

As he sits there in the velvety blackness he can't help but resent the time wasted, spent in pain and misery, locked out of a part of himself as essential to him as his music. Nearly twenty years, half of them in his physical prime, were taken away and set just outside his reach, to taunt him with their inaccessibility. He can still feel the rage deep within, the fury and bewilderment at the unexpected, lightning-quick loss—one day a more or less whole man physically, to find a week later he had a crater big enough to put his fist in, where his right thigh should be.

It comes back then, the hard slam of inarticulate shock amid a wild blaze of agony at his first sight of that enormous sunken horror, full of stitches and inflamed red lines across pale, vulnerable flesh. The blessed oblivion of morphine couldn't come soon enough, but even as he slid into the darkness he'd known his new reality would wait patiently for him when he returned, inexorable as death.

He is brought out of his memories by a plaintive chirp and the brush of a tail across his forearm. Hellboy sits down next to him and rubs the top of his head against Greg's elbow. The black cat's practically invisible, but his golden eyes gleam faintly. Greg reaches out to trail his fingers over silken fur.

"How are the wives?" he asks. He's just being polite; the Heebster doesn't own a pair of balls, they were snipped some time ago according to Roz. Still, the cat probably doesn't let that stop him. Hellboy purrs softly and strokes his cheek over Greg's skin to mark him, but there's an unmistakable affection behind the act.

The two of them sit side by side for some time. The waxing moon rides high now, a cool silvery disk nestled among diamonds scattered across the black sky. Now and then a bright streak flashes dimly—only the biggest meteors in the Perseid shower can compete with this much moonlight. Greg wishes he could indulge in a cigarette, but tobacco is understandably off-limits for the forseeable future. It's too bad, because there's nothing like a good smoke on a cool evening to calm his nerves. Still, it's not worth the risk. He's come this far. To muck things up for an indulgence is not an option.

Eventually the cat hears or sees something in the sideyard hedge. He gets to his feet, stretches, offers Greg a little 'see you later' noise, and streaks off into the darkness. Greg envies him his agility, even while a small part of him exults in the knowledge that his will be restored, at least in part.

But now he feels the chill of the early morning air, and while it's pleasant, it also makes him shiver. With reluctance he gets up, stretches a little just as Hellboy did, and waits for a moment to see what sort of message his leg sends him now. The need to move is gone, at least for the moment. In its place is an odd sort of ache—not quite an itch, not really a pain, but with elements of both. It's a healing sensation, one he remembers from the time he broke his arm—he couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. When the bone began to knit together he felt like this.

A powerful sense of joy fills him, deep and wild. It's working, he thinks, and puts his hand on the ugly scar. It's working. He wants to hurl his cane through a window, climb on the furniture, howl at the moon and dance in ecstasy. What he does instead is go back to the bedroom, one careful step at a time, in the knowledge that someday soon he'll walk without that endless reminder of what was taken.

When he climbs into bed Roz stirs. Her hand comes out to touch his arm. "You okay?" she asks, her words a little indistinct. "Been gone a while."

He slides in next to her, presses his cheek to her thick, soft hair and brings her close so they can cuddle spoon-fashion. "I'm okay," he says, and rubs her hip gently. "Just out for a little walk."

"Your leg?" When he nods her hand covers his. "It's working, isn't it? It's working." Her fingers tighten on his. "I knew it would."

"Go to sleep," he says. But the little voice deep inside echoes her words.

It's working.