A few hours pass and a nurse enters my room, fiddling with the monitors above me, I stare at her as she completes - what I assume to be - her daily check-up.
"You're not very talkative," she says as she pulls my gown down my arm to look at my shoulder.
"Sorry, my name's Finn," she smiles subtlety to herself and giggles slightly.
"I know your name, I'm you nurse. Everyone around here knows your name," I blink and furrow my brows, "You saved General Organa's best pilot, and your foolish but brave attempt to save your friend spread through the base pretty quickly." She applies an ointment to my shoulder, rubbing in small, gentle circles. I'm unsure how to answer so I'm thankful when she asks me to roll onto my left side; I feel the deep stretching sensation again, and I fear my back my split in two. She undoes the back of the gown, I feel exposed, the cold air tickles my damaged skin. "These are looking a lot better, but we can't prevent the scar tissue," I nod, as she applies the same ointment. I begin wondering what Rey would think of such a hideously large scar, trailing from the base of my spine in a jagged line up between my shoulder blades.

My nurse, whose name I earlier found out to be Starla returns in the afternoon. placing a tray of porridge and water on my bed before removing the drip in my arm, but leaning the cords and patches attached to my skin. She sits in the corner filling in some paper work. At first I don't feel like eating, until I take my first mouthful, the food is bland, injected with all the nutrients I need to function again, but I eat as if it is my first meal.
Starla finishes her work and I ask for seconds, she shakes her head saying everything is portioned correctly and more could have a negative affect.
"Can I do something, maybe walk around?" She tilts her head slightly and nods
"Okay, but you have to listen to what I say,"
"Okay," I agree.
"Move your legs so they hang off the bed, but stay flat on the bed, try not to move your back," I obey and it take some time but I eventually get in the right position. "Good," I smile, she walks around the side of the bed until she stands behind me, she slips her hand under my head grasping the back of my neck and she uses her other hand to grip my left shoulder, "Now I will help push you up, it'll hurt, but you won't tear your skin," I nod and on the count of three she pushes me into a sitting position, a mixture of different intensities of pain spread through my body, but I try and ignore it. Starla comes around to face me and offers her hands, I take them and she uses all her strength to pull me to my feet and keep my upright.
"Thank you," I whisper, looking down on her, she is considerably smaller than me, just below my shoulders. I feel guilty for forcing her to help me when I'm close to double her weight.
She takes the tray and begins to leave.
"I'll be back to help you down again." She steps out of the room and disappears down the hallway. I take a step and feel my skin resist, I continue to take tentative steps until my back relaxes into the momentum of my slow paces. I carefully stretch and twist as I walk, trying to keep the cords from tangling as I encourage more movement. Starla returns after a while and completes what will become my daily ritual, in reverse.

That evening Starla brings me some food and a large drink to keep my hydration up during the night. She sits with me and we talk for a while, she asks me questions I don't want to answer, so I often redirect the conversation to her. I ask how she came to be a part of the resistance. She tells that her father fought in the rebellion, and her mother worked in the kitchens cooking meals for all the pilots and crew. She is six years older than me, even though her small size contradicts it.
She leaves after an hour and I easily slip into a deep sleep.

The next two days follow the same pattern, Poe visits briefly, Starla visits three times a day: applies the ointment and helps me regain my precious abilities; we try numerous activities and exercises using the equipment in the room. On the third day since I woke from my coma my nurse provides me with lunch and fills in my forms. As she comes over to help me up as she always does, she collects the tray and leaves. I call her back, "Starla, where are you going?" She ignores me, unable to hide her smirk as she struts away down the hallway, seemingly very proud of herself. I lay for a moment; then I understand. I take a breath and slowly twist my legs off the bed and push myself into a sitting position. I move to the edge of the bed, pressing my feet firmly to the ground before heaving myself into a standing position, a small ache occurs but it is hardly noticeable. I see Starla's small frame hiding unsuccessfully behind a wall, her big eyes bright with pride. I pretend I hadn't seen her, and begin the exercises. Without Starla here to tell me when to stop I push myself to my limits; which are almost as close to my original abilities. I feel the sweat begin to coat my forehead, but I persevere, I do not feel any pain but I am sure my muscles with ache in the evening.
After another hour my body decides it has had enough. I soon find myself under the sheet on my hard bed and my eyes drift to a close.