A/N: I couldn't tell if this was more fun or heartbreaking to write. Either way...hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

To my surprise, Artie did a mighty fine job of keeping the topic of spinal cords to himself until Saturday. However, I probably should have been more specific, for he brought it up Saturday morning before I could even get a sip of caffeine in me. I couldn't blame him though; the idea of mending the condition that was thought by many to be incurable in his lifetime excited him, and I'd be lying if I didn't feel the same way to a certain extent.

Artie's doctor met us in the lobby of Lima General Hospital, where from there, he led Artie and me to his upstairs office. Dr. Darren Harper was a tall, sharp looking man, with thin metal-framed bifocal glasses, and dark hair. He walked in such a way that made his white coat flow, and everyone else around aware of his confidence as a doctor. I had a good impression from the few times we've met; however, as I followed Artie into his tiny office, I couldn't help but hold resentment against the man I barely knew for suggesting such a radical idea.

Dr. Harper extended his arm out to two chairs before circling behind his desk and taking a seat himself. I instinctively pushed one of the chairs out of the way to make room for Artie, and made sure he was settled before sitting on the edge of my chair defensively. Behind the doctor's head was a collection of plaques and certificates neatly hung on the wall. There were seven to be exact – I counted as Dr. Harper started his monologue about one of the procedures that was the grown-up version of the infancy I researched in high school.

From what I caught on, they wanted to extract cells from the surrounding area of Artie's injury, and grow them into a brand new segment of spinal cord. Once mature, the genetically engineered spinal cord segment would be surgically implanted. However, Dr. Harper was very vague on the process, and I couldn't tell if it was caused by his own ignorance or too much heart to express the reality.

"Now…if you choose to go though this, you'll need to set up an appointment at Ohio State; for not only legal work, but for tests to pass you for a candidate for the surgery," Dr. Harper said, linking his hands out over his desk calendar, covered in scribbles and highlighter strokes.

"Legal work?"

The doctor leaned forward, "Every surgery, even a routine one, carries some sort of risk…and especially because this is a experimental procedure, both of you will have to sign papers saying that if something goes wrong, the hospital and its medical team can't be held accountable."

Artie nodded accordingly and I held my breath. It was finally said in the open; something could go wrong. Inside, I hoped Artie received that message, and that the little men in wheelchairs, hanging on for dear life, on his shoulders were having an open debate on the subject. However, the same light remained in his eyes, so I had my doubts.

My steel bridge of an opinion seemed to be sturdy over the rapid river topic of the surgery. However, after an old find in the back of my disaster of a closet, acid rain began to drizzle down on the once flawless steel. Originally, I had been on a mission to find a particular shirt, but underneath the layers of both clean and dirty clothes, thrown around the room hastily, was a box. The box was black with its length larger than its width, and although it seemed familiar, I couldn't remember where or when we had once met before. I reached out for the box before sitting back on my feet and securing it in my lap. A thin layer of dust clouded off when I slowly wiped my hand across the surface.

After flipping the lid over with my left pointer finger, I brought the corresponding hand up to cover my mouth. Struck with nostalgia, quick as lightning, I scooped up the size ten and a half mens tap shoes and held them out in front of me. The metal bottoms clanked together as I adjusted them in my hands.

I'm gonna dance one day, you know.

My heart began to sink deep into my chest, and that guilty feeling started to wrap itself around my throat once again. In a way, I'd never understand why he would want to take such a risk – all my life I've been physically capable of doing whatever I pleased. Putting myself in his shoes, or more so holding them in the palms of my hands, gave me a new point of view, but even so - I still couldn't convince myself into being okay with the choice he was making.

That night, while Artie was religiously lounged out on the couch in front of the television, I snuck back to our bedroom for a phone call after copying the familiar number I desired, and once knew by heart, onto a sticky note. I needed an outside opinion…one from someone who loved and cared for Artie as much as I did, from the woman who raised him though thick and thin – his mother.

From the background noise that traveled into my ear over the phone, it almost seemed like Catherine Abrams had dropped everything to pick up the phone – a clear indicator that she was expecting her boy, not me. As I was not a frequent caller, the paranoid woman jumped to conclusion that something was wrong with her son, and as tempting as it was dryly tell her that there was, I negated her hypothesis. Instead, hoping that Artie came to her about the surgery as well, I told her my troubles.

"I told him what I thought," Artie's mother responded with a sigh. "But I couldn't tell him no."

"W-why not?"

"Because when the little boy you put in a wheelchair comes to you as an adult about corrective surgery to fix what you broke…you can't deny him that opportunity."

"He's going though with it no matter what I say," I sighed after a pause.

"It's not about us."

"I know, but-"

"All we can do is support him no matter what happens, and pray to God that nothing does," she said. "He's a dreamer, Tina…we have no choice but to let him dream."

After the phone conference with Artie's mother, I crawled across the queen-sized mattress, and plopped down on my side of the bed in an almost fetal position. Feeling like crying out of frustration, I closed my eyes and sighed. I just didn't know what to think anymore.

There was soft tap at the door.

I picked up my head briefly, wiping away the adolescent tears from my ducts, "It's open."

"You feeling okay?" Artie asked, closing the door behind him with a furrowed brow after one look at me.

I shrugged, "just tired, I guess."

"Rough day?" He asked, circling around the bed to his side.

"You could say that," I sighed.

Artie parked himself adjacent to the edge of the bed before locking his chair, and transferring to the surface. I remained with my back towards him as he adjusted his body parallel to mine. From over my shoulder, I watched him reach his arm out towards me. The veins that twisted around his arm extended though his fingertips for me, and the strong bicep looked eager to constrict, however, I looked away and held my own arms against my chest.

"No cuddles?" He asked in a pathetic voice.

"Not in the mood," I quickly responded.

"A-are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"Artie, please leave me alone."

"Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

"Because you're the problem," I snapped, rolling onto my back. "You and that stupid surgery."

"That stupid surgery is going to make me walk someday."

"No. No it's not. Why can't you see that?" I asked, sitting up. "All we're going to be left with are medical bills that we'll never be able to pay off…if we're even that lucky."

"You don't even know what you're talking about, Tina, I'm getting paid to go though with this. You'd know that if you weren't trapped in your bubble of resentment. We could finally get married, buy a house…get out of this tiny apartment-"

"Not if you're dead," I choked. "We can't get married, buy a house, raise a family – whatever, if they make a tiny mistake and kill you."

"Why do you have to talk like that?" He snarled, sitting up and angling his arms back for support.

"Because it's the reality. Why can't you see that?"

"Because you're wrong."

"I'm done, Artie. I'm so…done." I yelled on the verge of tears, standing up off the bed, and making my way towards the door. "Die alone for all I care."

I regretted saying what I did the second I came to terms with it. However, that was half way down the hall, and there was too much adrenaline and furry coursing though my veins to turn back. Instead, I collapsed on to the three-cushioned couch that faced the far wall, and brought my hands up to cover my damp face. The micro fiber material beneath me was still vaguely warm from the last lounger, and the fleece throw that usually hung neatly over the back of the couch, was ruffled from armrest to armrest. Pealing my hands from my face, I bunched up a section of the blanket in my arms, and buried my face into the soft cloth.

"T-Tina?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, holding the blanket closer to my chest, as the familiar rattle of Artie's wheelchair became more prominent in my eardrums.

"Tina?" he called again.

"Go away," I choked – my voice muffled by the throw.

"C-can we talk?" he sighed.

"No. I refuse to talk about it anymore, Artie."

"I meant about us."

I uncovered a portion of my face, looking up at his stone cold expression. "Oh Artie…I'm so sorry. I-I didn't mean it," I sobbed, hiding my face once again.

"I know," He said, taking a deep and hollow breath.

"I-I don't know what came over me," I sniffed.

Artie remained quiet – too quiet. It scared me that he didn't acknowledge my apology. Instead he just sat there, looking down into his lap where he discretely twisted his fingers.

"Maybe…I should cancel that meeting at Ohio State," Artie sighed, looking up over the rims of his glasses.

"W-why?"

"Because it's tearing us apart, Tina," he exclaimed. "Look at us."

"I can't…I can't ask that of you."

"But it's what you want."

"But it's not what you want," I said, pushing myself up with my arms into a semi vertical position.

"Say what you will, Tina, but I know you think it's a terrible idea."

"It scares me ruthless," I admitted with a sigh.

"Then it's settled," Artie said swiping a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Tomorrow I'll call Ohio State and withdraw myself from the program."

I pressed my lips together, closed my eyes, and nodded. Although I was getting my way, the self-satisfaction and relief I was feeling was empty. The guilt in my chest made it perfectly clear that Artie didn't change his mind because he wanted to. However, I told myself to count my blessings.