"C'mon Carlton," his physical therapist, Nicole, said, lightly supporting his strong leg on an exercise ball. He was laying on a large, padded table, his legs tied together with a gait belt. "You can do it. Bring your legs towards me. Go. Go. Go."

Carlton held his breath and burrowed his eyebrows, focusing on rolling his knees away from his therapist on the exercise ball. His muscles felt weak and floppy. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him just how much muscle tone he had lost not only in his weak leg, but also in what was supposed to be his strong leg. Every little movement, no matter how mundane or standard, awoke a new muscle in his body, leaving him sore in places he didn't even know he could be sore. Lactic acid had built up on his muscles, making every movement more exhausting and painful with each passing day.

It was his eighth day in the rehab center, and he was spent. Every day brought a new round of therapy, with new struggles and new weaknesses made apparent to him. And yet, he did feel like he was making progress, even just in the last week. He felt less contracted. Constant stretching and pulling on his limbs by the therapists had loosened his muscles and he was slowly feeling himself more able to sit up straight.

Being in that center with therapists constantly encouraging him and telling him he was doing great, even when he didn't think so, had helped clear his mind of the havoc the dark shadow had been wreaking. In fact, he hadn't talked to the dark figure since he arrived at the facility. Bright and early the day after he arrived, Marlowe came for the tour and before he knew it, he was in his workout clothes Marlowe had brought from him, his arms and legs being stretched and rotated. He could feel the glue that had been holding his limbs in place slowly melt away. His muscles were beginning to cool down and relax. Breathing felt easier. Marginally. He wanted to believe he was improving. Believe he was getting looser. But when he watched the movement of his arms and legs, even with the therapist's help, it still looked like it was barely moving an inch.

"Amazing job, Carlton," Nicole said, easing his legs to the therapy bed for him and undoing the gait belt. "Should we try some sitting and standing now?"

Carlton nodded and let her move around him, attaching what felt like a seat belt around both of their waists and helping adjust him into a sitting up position. Her knees on either side of his, she began to push into his shoulders to help him sit up straight. He took deep breaths and focused on letting his muscles stretch under the pressure she was putting against them.

He closed his eyes, mentally tracing the pathway between his brain and his arm that he could no longer control. He felt the stretch from the pressure until the feeling turned into a dull tingle that disappeared altogether as it worked its way down his forearm. Over and over, he traced the feeling, trying to feel just a centimeter farther. As he worked his way down his arm, he would get hopeful he could feel more until the sensation would inevitably fall away each time.

"Great job, Carlton," Nicole said, putting her hand on his forehead to help him look up. His eyes tried to make sense of the room around him, watching different therapist-patient pairs working in different corners of the room.

"How do you feel, Carlton?"

"Stiff," he said, still working hard to push the words out. He looked back up so he could focus on his therapist, keeping his eyes away from the distorted image of himself that he was looking at.

"That's okay. That's completely normal." She said, smiling. "Shall we try standing up?"

Carlton nodded, lifting up his weak hand with his stronger one to let her put a thick gait belt around his waist. It was one of the most bizarre techniques Carol had taught him while he was still in the hospital, but it was, at the very least, effective. His shoulder had become constantly sore from the weight of the arm he no longer had control over, so being able to adjust his hand to take the pressure off his shoulder was a huge relief.

"Alright Carlton," Nicole said, gripping tightly onto the gait belt around his waist. "One, two, three!"

Carlton took a breath and focused all of his energy on raising himself up to a standing position. He could feel every muscle in his good leg contracting in an attempt to pull his body weight and the pressure of the gait belt supporting his back. He moved his focus to his arms, reaching out to the bar on the wall next to them to support his weight. He was standing. He was upright. Something that had seemed so menial before, something that had been completed with no real thought or effort, the act of bringing himself onto his feet, had become a team sport that only happened once or twice a day under strict supervision.

Nicole pushed on his shoulders to help him stand up straighter, and his eyes left the floor in front of him to get a better look at the room from an upright position. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall opposite them. He could see his whole body, stiff and weak, slumped against the support of the belt. He had yet to see his whole body in a mirror since the incident, and it was jarring to see. His overgrown hair was becoming greyer as it fell limply over the side of his head, covering the shaved line that traced the curve of his head. His eyes looked soft and unfocused, distant almost, and his mouth looked small underneath the growing beard. He could barely even recognize himself.

It was hard to believe that the tall man with dark hair who used to look back at him was gone, replaced by this saggy old man who had to be held upright. This was not the man he was used to seeing looking back at him, and it made him sad to realize that he would never see that man again. He used to like the way he looked. And Spencer had called him a stallion enough times to make him believe he might actually be attractive, something the string bean that he had considered a body up until he joined the academy would have never believed. But that was a thing of the past now.

And yet, he was finally upright. Truly on his feet, not just being shifted from the bed to his wheelchair. His legs were being supported by ankle braces, and he was being held up by a young woman who was leaning back to counter his weight, but he was no longer lying in bed. He began to smile at his reflection, proud of the progress he had made in such a short time in therapy. He suddenly felt the blood slowly drain from his head and his vision became more spotted than usual.

"Dizzy," he forced out, his heart beating a little faster as fear of falling began to kick in.

"You're okay," Nicole said, holding tightly onto the gait belt and lowering him gently onto the edge of the bed. She adjusted the seat belt around their waist and helped ease him back to a lying position on the therapy table. "It's okay, Carlton. That's hard to do. You're making amazing progress."

Carlton closed his eyes and nodded trying to keep the disappointment from setting in. He just wanted to be better. Frustration washed over him and he clenched his fist and slammed it down on the bed next to him. Part of him wished he had his gun. He missed going to the shooting range and now would be a perfect time to let off some steam. But instead, he was stuck on this bed being moved around like one of Lily's barbies.

"Carlton," Nicole said, squatting down next to the side of the bed so she was at Carlton's eye level. "I know you are frustrated. But standing is hard to do. Supporting yourself with one leg, especially when that leg hasn't supported weight in two months is difficult. And it takes time to grow back that strength. But you will get there. I believe that you will. But you have to believe it too."

Carlton sat in bed, flipping over cards in an oversized deck that one of the therapists gave him, trying to match the numbers. It was supposed to help his memory, but it made him feel like a child. Before the incident, this was a game that he would play with Lily all the time, giving her little hints to make sure she got more pairs than he did. Now he was pretty sure she could beat him without even trying.

He wanted his memory back. It was frustrating not being able to recall information he had just been told less than an hour prior. He was a detective. His livelihood had often depended on him being able to remember what someone had told him and evaluate what they had said. Now he was pretty positive he wouldn't be able to remember the name of a suspect if it was written on their forehead.

All of the cards flipped over and stacked in pairs, Carlton pressed the big red stop button on his timer. Seven minutes and fifty-two seconds. To match twenty-one pairs. And yet, it beat his fastest time from yesterday by twenty-three seconds. So, he was improving. Technically.

Carlton ran through his therapies from the last week and a half, replaying how they felt through his body. He could feel the aches that ran through his arms and legs as he put them through more activity than they had been in over two months. He could feel himself getting stronger though. Physically, he was almost able to take a step, thanks to some fancy lift device they had harnessed him into. There was a pulley system on the ceiling that would lift him out of bed and the therapists would get him to a standing position and move his legs with their hands as he took "steps" forward in a full body brace.

What really threw him off was no longer the lack of sensation in his leg. He had slowly gotten begrudgingly used to feeling puttering off as it disappeared down his arm and leg. But it still made him feel uneasy when he could see people touching his leg, but he couldn't feel it. He would be standing up, watching his therapist take his left leg in their hand and pick it up to move it forward a step, but he couldn't feel their hands. He knew they were there. His brain was telling them they were there. His eyes were showing him that their hands were touching him, but he couldn't feel their fingers on his skin. He would stare at the spot on his leg where their hand made contact, focus on the sensation he knew he should be having, but it wouldn't come. Instead, there was nothing.

"Don't focus on that," he whispered to himself out loud, still uncomfortable with his voice but needing to hear the words spoken.

He refocused his mind on the good. On the fact that he truly was improving. On the fact that his therapists were impressed with the progress he had made in such a short time considering the severity of the stroke he had. Focus on the fact that tomorrow they said they would help him take a step without the full body harness, and even if it was only one or two steps, it would still be something to show everyone when they came to visit for Christmas dinner.

He shoved away the feelings of embarrassment that surfaced any time he considered showing off how he was improving and instead concentrated on how happy they would be for him doing something that he was temporarily unable to do- no matter how basic. They would all be proud of him. It would be a good sign- a step in the right direction. That was what mattered now, right? Little steps in the right direction.