Hannibal sat at the kitchen table, flexing his fingers as he worked a stress ball between them. He stared out the window, wishing his life would change for the better. The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, warming the room to a comfortable temperature. Maggie always kept the house cool for the medical equipment in the clinic at the back of the house.

"John," why are you favoring your left side?" she asked.

Hannibal blinked, looking at her. "I didn't realize I had a tilt, Maggie. Maybe I'm trying out a new swagger."

Maggie crossed her arms, unimpressed by his attempt at humor. "It's not swagger. It's compensation. Don't think I haven't noticed you dragging your left foot again."

He shrugged nonchalantly, placing the ball on the table. "I'll add it to the list of things I need to fix."

"Guess again," she said firmly. "I want to take a closer look. We're going to the clinic for an X-ray."

Hannibal sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You sound like Mark. Are you two conspiring against me now?"

"It's for your own good," she replied, motioning for him to stand. "Up you go."

Grumbling under his breath, Hannibal reached for his walker, pushing himself upright. His left foot dragged against the floor every other step. The sound grated on his nerves. Maggie stayed close, her hand hovering near his elbow as they made their way to the clinic.

Once inside, she gestured for him to sit on the padded exam table. "Have a seat." The X-ray machine hummed as she set it up for use.

He gave her a mock glare as he lowered himself onto the exam table. "We're bringing out the fancy machines now, huh?"

She ignored his sarcasm, pulling the lead apron from a hook on the wall. "This isn't a joke, John. That foot drag isn't improving, and I want to know why." She positioned his left foot under the camera head and then draped a lead apron over his lap. "Hold still. This won't take long."

"This is overkill, Maggie. A little scuffing isn't the end of the world."

"It is when it's not getting better," she countered, "Now hold still. I don't want to irradiate your important parts."

Hannibal did as he was told. The machine whirled for a second. He watched her adjust the angles as the X-ray film developed in the lightbox.

"What's the verdict, Maggie?" Hannibal asked. "Don't keep me in suspense. Am I doomed to shuffle around forever?"

She turned to face him. "You've got a bone spur at the base of your left ankle. Probably from that old injury you mentioned in Vietnam. And there's a hairline fracture, most likely caused by the muscle spasms during your last seizure."

Hannibal frowned, his brow furrowing. "Vietnam, huh? When exactly? And what the hell did I do to myself? What happened to my ankle back then?"

"You stepped into a cartridge trap while leaving Hanoi. The trap didn't go off, but it broke your ankle pretty badly."

Hannibal leaned forward. "And after that?"

She exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You were on the move and couldn't get treatment right away. By the time you made it to the hospital, your ankle was extremely swollen. Then you were transported to Fort Bragg for processing, and…" she paused. "They didn't prop your leg up during the flight. The swelling got worse. By the time you landed, your toes were nearly black under the cast. The doctor diagnosed compartment syndrome and rushed you into surgery to save your foot."

Hannibal absorbed her words. "Compartment syndrome," he echoed, testing the term on his tongue. "That's why it never healed right."

Maggie nodded. "It's also why you've got that bone spur now. Your body's been compensating for years. The fracture, however, is recent, likely from those severe muscle contractions during the seizures."

He whistled, drumming his fingers on the exam table. "Hell of a chain reaction."

"That's why I want to address it," Maggie said firmly. "If we deal with the spur and stabilize the fracture, it'll give you a better shot at regaining mobility."

Hannibal frowned. "That would explain the pain."

Maggie nodded. "And why your foot drop isn't improving on the left side. The spur's probably irritating the surrounding tissues and nerves."

"Let me guess," he said dryly. "Surgery."

"It's the best option," she replied. "Arthroscopic surgery is minimally invasive. The surgeon makes a small incision, uses a tiny camera to guide the procedure, and removes the spur while stabilizing the fracture. Recovery is faster because it doesn't involve large cuts or extensive tissue damage. It'll reduce your pain and improve your mobility."

Hannibal rubbed the bridge of his nose, clearly not thrilled at the prospect. "And how long before I'm back to normal?"

"That depends on how committed you are to recovery," Maggie said. "This is one more step in the process."

He smiled. "You're not leaving me much room to argue, are you?"

"Nope," she said, gently patting his shoulder. "I'll call Dr. Cooper and get the ball rolling. In the meantime, take it easy. That means no pushing yourself harder than necessary."

Hannibal sighed, grabbing the handle of his walker. "You're taking all the fun out of my recovery, Maggie."

"I'll live with that." She chuckled. "Now, let's get you back into the house."

As they headed back to the kitchen, Hannibal glanced at his left foot. He hated feeling like a liability. One step at a time, he reminded himself. One step at a time.

###

Hannibal sat at the kitchen table, watching the drip coffee maker sitting on the counter. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee stirred his craving for the extra-strong brew. He flexed his fingers, testing his elusive coordination.

Maggie leaned against the counter. "Want me to get it for you?"

Hannibal shook his head. "Nope. I've got this."

"Alright," she said. "Take your time."

He pushed himself up from the chair, gripping the table for balance. His left foot dragged as he shuffled to the counter. The sound of his left sneaker scraping the floor made him wince. Reaching the coffee pot, he placed one hand on the handle and steadied the top with his other hand. His movements were deliberate, almost painfully slow.

Maggie stepped closer, ready to intervene if necessary. "Remember, you don't have to prove anything. It's just coffee."

"Just coffee?" Hannibal quipped dryly. "This is the lifeblood of infantry grunts everywhere."

He carefully tilted the pot, pouring the dark liquid into the mug in an unsteady stream. A few drops spilled onto the counter, and he adjusted his grip. By the time the mug was half full, he straightened up, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Not bad," he said. "Could've been worse."

Maggie grabbed a towel and wiped up the stray drops. "Not bad at all. Now, let's see if you can drink it without wearing it."

Hannibal chuckled, reaching for the mug with both hands. His right fingers slid through the handle while his left hand gripped the base for support. Slowly lifting the mug, he brought it to his lips, the heat warming his hands. He took a cautious sip. The rich bitterness was wonderful. "Success." He lowered the mug back to the counter. His hands trembled as he set it down, but the mug stayed upright.

Maggie smiled. "You've come a long way."

"Feels more like an inch," he muttered, glancing at his hands. "But I'll take it."

"You're stubborn enough to make it a mile." She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "And I'll be here every step of the way."

He met her gaze and grinned. "Appreciate it, Maggie. Really."

She nodded, stepping back to grab her mug. "Sit down and enjoy that coffee. You earned it."

Hannibal returned to his seat with the mug cradled tightly between his hands. As he took another sip, he allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

###

Hannibal sat in the living room, cradling a cup of coffee in both hands. His fingers, though steadier than a few weeks ago, still trembled. Across from him, Maggie sat on the couch, reading through the checklist in her notebook.

"Alright, John." Maggie put down the notebook. "Dr. Cooper called earlier. The Army hospital at Fort Tucker is ready for your pre-op scans tomorrow morning."

Hannibal looked at her. "And Decker?"

"I've already made sure he won't be a problem," Maggie said. "I demanded written guarantees that you won't be harassed or arrested while you're there. General Buckhalter signed off on it himself."

Hannibal arched an eyebrow. "Buckhalter? The same guy who's been giving Decker free rein?"

Maggie nodded. "The very one. But Dr. Cooper backed me up. He told Buckhalter he'd personally vouch for your medical condition. And he may have implied that if anything went wrong, it would reflect poorly on the general in the press."

Hannibal chuckled, shaking his head. "You're relentless, Maggie."

"Damn right I am," she shot back. "Now, about the procedure. Like I told you a few days ago, it's arthroscopic surgery and minimally invasive. The surgeon will make a small incision, insert a camera to guide the tools, and remove the bone spur. They'll also stabilize the hairline fracture. Recovery will be quicker than with open surgery."

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. "Sounds simple enough. But you and I both know nothing's ever that straightforward."

"Maybe not," Maggie admitted. "But it's the best option we've got. Without it, that foot isn't going to improve."

He sighed, setting the coffee cup on the table with deliberate care. "Alright, let's get it over with. I'm not staying at that hospital a second longer than necessary."

Maggie smiled. "Don't worry. I'll make sure you behave."

###

The morning sun cast long shadows as Maggie's GMC Jimmy SUV rolled along the quiet rural road toward Fort Tucker. Dr. Cooper followed in his vehicle, ensuring all bases were covered.

Hannibal sat stiffly in the passenger seat, resting his arm on the open window with the cool breeze on his face. His walker was folded and lying on the rear passenger seat. He watched the passing fields and occasional farmhouses. His left foot rested awkwardly on the floor. Each bump sent a jolt through his body, irritating the lingering soreness from his last seizure.

"You're unusually quiet this morning," Maggie said, keeping her eyes on the road.

Hannibal smiled at her. "Thinking about the good old days. When a 300-pound bench press felt like a warm-up."

Maggie laughed. "Those good old days didn't come with a walker, I take it?"

"Not unless I was handing it to someone else," Hannibal quipped. He glanced at his left foot, flexing it subtly. "Do you think this is worth it, Maggie?"

She nodded. "Absolutely, John. Maybe you won't be bench-pressing 300 pounds again, but every step forward matters. One step at a time, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "You and Mark should start a new singing group with those lyrics with how often you sing that tune."

When Hannibal saw the base perimeter fence coming into view, he felt a complex mixture of emotions. Scattered memories whooshed through his mind, but he was unable to grasp even one.

As they approached the gate, Hannibal straightened. Soldiers marched along the road in formation, singing cadences called Jodies to stay in step. It stirred something in him—pride and familiarity. This was his world, and yet, it wasn't anymore.

Maggie stopped at the main gate and rolled down her window.

A young MP stepped out of the guardhouse with a clipboard. He adjusted his black helmet and approached the driver's door.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said briskly. "Name and purpose of your visit?"

"Dr. Margaret Sullivan, accompanying Colonel John Smith for medical treatment." She handed over the clearance paperwork.

The MP flipped through the documents. His expression remained neutral, then his brows shot up, and he glanced into the Jimmy. "Colonel John Smith?"

Hannibal leaned forward, locking eyes with the MP. "That's right. Colonel John Smith, Fifth Special Forces Group. Problem?"

The MP snapped to attention and saluted. "No, sir! Apologies for the delay, Colonel."

Hannibal gave him a quick salute. "At ease, soldier. Just clear us through."

The MP stepped back and lifted the crossbar. "Welcome to Fort Tucker."

As Maggie drove through, Hannibal leaned back, scanning the base. A convoy of Jeeps and deuce and a half trucks rumbled past, kicking up dust in their wake. Recruits jogged in formation wearing PT gear with a drill sergeant in a "Smokey Bear" campaign hat alongside calling colorful, R-rated Jodie's.

Hannibal's chest tightened. The sights and sounds were so familiar that it felt like slipping into an old pair of boots, but those boots didn't fit quite right anymore.

"Feels strange, doesn't it?" Maggie asked gently.

"Yeah," he admitted. He watched a group of privates practicing hand-to-hand combat in a nearby field. "Feels like I've been gone a lifetime."

Maggie placed a reassuring hand on his forearm. "You're still that man, John. Just a little older and banged up right now."

Hannibal smiled and flexed his fingers, noticing the ever-present tremor, and sighed. "Let's get this over with."

###

Hannibal drew a deep breath as Maggie parked near the hospital entrance. The massive Fort Tucker medical facility loomed in front of them. Dr. Cooper pulled into a parking spot beside them. He got out of his car with a clipboard.

For Hannibal, stepping onto an Army base for the first time in years without scamming his way on felt strange, unsettling, even.

"You're awfully quiet," Maggie remarked as she turned off the engine. She slid out of the car and moved around the vehicle.

Hannibal opened his door before Maggie could get to him. "Just taking it all in. The sights, the sounds, the memories." His feet hit the asphalt. The jarring sensation shot up his left ankle and made him wince. "Ah, there it is. The reminder I'm not twenty-five anymore."

Maggie appeared at his side, walker in hand. "So what? I'd rather have you. And you'll get your strength back."

Hannibal took the walker, ignoring her hovering hands as he carefully maneuvered himself out of the car. The gravel crunched beneath his sneakers. "Yeah, I'll feel strong when I can bench press more than a cup of coffee."

Maggie gave him a pointed look but said nothing, leading the way toward the hospital's sliding glass doors.

Inside, the antiseptic smell hit him first—a clean, sterile scent that was far too reminiscent of field hospitals. Hannibal gritted his teeth, forcing the memory of bloody stretchers and the groans of wounded soldiers to the back of his mind. He focused on the present.

Maggie grabbed a wheelchair parked next to the doors and patted the seat. "Your ride's here. Hospital policy."

Hannibal sat in the chair. He wasn't about to argue with Maggie.

A uniformed orderly appeared with a clipboard. "Colonel Smith?"

"Yes," Hannibal replied.

"This way, sir. We'll get you settled in a private room first."

As the orderly pushed the wheelchair down a long corridor, Hannibal took in the recruitment posters lining the walls. One caught his attention: a bold, vintage design from the Vietnam era, proclaiming, "Proud to Serve." The words tugged at him, stirring pride and frustration. It made him think of his younger self, stepping into the jungle with the world on his shoulders. He wasn't sure what weighed heavier: the memories of the soldier he once was or the reality of the man he was now.

He caught glimpses of soldiers in fatigues passing by, some injured, but most were muscled and strong. That stirred something in his gut: his present connecting with his past.

After arriving at a large private room, Maggie and Dr. Cooper stepped out to coordinate with the medical staff. Hannibal ran a hand over the armrest of the wheelchair. He traced the cool metal with his finger.

A technician entered the room. "Colonel Smith? Are you ready for your scans?"

Hannibal nodded, gripping the wheelchair's arms as he repositioned himself. The technician wheeled him through the maze of hallways, the rubber tires squeaking on the tile. The CT room was sterile and cold, and the air-conditioning was cranked to the maximum to keep the equipment running efficiently.

The technician helped Hannibal transfer to the scanning table. Hannibal hated needing assistance but accepted it without comment.

"This will take about fifteen minutes," the technician said as he positioned Hannibal's head in a brace to keep him in the correct position and ear muffs to protect his ears. "Relax and hold still."

Relax? How do I relax in a loud metal tube? That was easier said than done. The low hum of the machine rattled through his body. Staring at the blank white ceiling, Hannibal focused on his breathing. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The stillness reminded him too much of the sweatboxes in the POW camp—cramped, suffocating, and inescapable. He curled his hands into fists before he caught himself and unclenched them.

When the CT scan was finished, the technician wheeled him to the MRI suite. The machine was larger and more imposing, and its open tube was less intimidating. The technician guided his left foot into position, padding the area around his ankle for stability.

"This one's louder," the technician warned, offering earplugs. "And it might feel a little cramped."

Hannibal nodded, closing his eyes as the machine roared to life. The relentless rhythmic pounding echoed like distant artillery fire. Images of the jungle entered his mind—sharp, fragmented memories of firefights and explosions. He ground his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm. It's just a machine—only noise.

###

When the orderly wheeled Hannibal back to his room, Maggie was already waiting on the small couch tucked into the corner. She glanced up from a medical journal. "Well, this is cozy."

Hannibal smirked faintly. "I've had worse digs. But I don't see a minibar."

"Maybe they'll bring room service," Maggie quipped, standing to help him out of the wheelchair. She grabbed his walker and steadied it in front of him.

"Thanks, but I can manage," he replied, gripping the handles firmly. He shuffled to the bed. His left ankle ached with each step. As he reached the mattress, he lowered himself down, exhaling a slow, controlled breath. "Firm," he muttered, giving the mattress a light pat. "Tolerable, though. Better than bamboo mats in the jungle."

Maggie crossed her arms. "No more comparing hospital beds to war zones."

He chuckled dryly, peeling off his sweats and replacing them with the standard-issue light blue hospital pajamas. "Keeps things in perspective, Maggie." Settling into bed, he leaned back against the adjustable headrest and glanced at the darkening sky outside the window.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and Dr. Cooper stepped inside. "Dr. Matheson will be along in a few minutes."

"Sounds good," Hannibal replied. "When do the snacks arrive?"

"Later," Cooper deadpanned, though a small smile appeared.

Moments later, the door opened again to admit a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, a confident stride, and a large folder tucked under his arm. He extended a hand to Hannibal. "Colonel Smith, I'm Dr. Matheson, your orthopedic surgeon."

Hannibal shook the man's hand firmly. "What's the prognosis, Doc?"

Matheson moved to the lightbox on the wall, clipped several X-rays and MRI images in place, and flipped the switch. The light illuminated the detailed scans of Hannibal's ankle. "Here's what we're dealing with." Matheson pointed to a jagged projection near the ankle joint. "This is your bone spur. It's been causing irritation and inflammation, which explains the lack of progress with your foot drop. And here—" he traced a faint line on another image, "—is the hairline fracture. It's small but in a tricky spot, likely caused by the intense muscle spasms during your last seizure."

Hannibal leaned forward, studying the images. "So, what's the solution?"

"Arthroscopic surgery," Matheson replied. "As Dr. Sullivan has told you, it's a minimally invasive procedure. We'll make a small incision and use a camera to guide us as we remove the bone spur and stabilize the fracture. Recovery time is shorter than traditional surgery. It'll significantly improve your mobility with proper rehab."

Hannibal looked at Maggie.

"It's the best option, John," she said softly.

Hannibal exhaled, his resistance giving way to trust. "Alright. Let's get it done."

Matheson smiled. "Good choice, sir. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Tonight, rest up and take it easy."

As Matheson prepared to leave, a petite woman in her mid-40s entered the room. Her ID-badge identified her as Dr. Helena Browning, Neurology. "Dr. Matheson mentioned that we'd need to address a separate issue before surgery. I'm here to review your recent CT scan and discuss the risks associated with your brain injury."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "Risks, huh? Let's hear them."

Browning clipped a fresh set of scans onto the lightbox, displaying detailed images of Hannibal's skull and brain. "Your head injury is healing well." She tapped a specific area. "The hematoma has significantly reduced in size, and the fracture is showing good signs of mending. However, given your recent seizures, we'll need to monitor you closely during surgery. General anesthesia can occasionally lower the seizure threshold, though with proper precautions, the risk is minimal."

Hannibal nodded. "I assume you've got a plan in case things go sideways."

"Absolutely," Browning assured him. "We'll have an anesthesiologist who specializes in high-risk cases. He'll monitor you closely throughout the procedure. In post-op, we'll increase the frequency of your neuro checks to ensure no complications arise."

"John, this is standard for cases like yours," Dr. Cooper said. "And it's the right step forward."

Hannibal looked between them, then at Maggie, who gave him an encouraging nod. "Fine, but don't forget to tell the anesthesiologist to keep it smooth. I'd hate to wake up in the middle of this."

Everyone laughed at his poor attempt at a joke.

Dr Browning smiled. "We'll make sure you're well taken care of, Colonel."

###

The smell hit him first: greasy, savory, and undeniably comfort food. Dr Matheson strolled in, holding up the unmistakable brown paper bag like a trophy.

"I figured you could use something better than whatever they're calling food in the cafeteria," Matheson said, setting the bag down on the small table by the bed.

Hannibal arched an eyebrow. "You trying to butter me up, Doc?"

"Just ensuring my patient doesn't stage a rebellion before surgery," Matheson quipped. He pulled out two burgers wrapped in crisp wax paper, a generous pile of fries stuffed into paper boats, and a warm slice of apple pie in a foil tin.

Maggie stood from her spot on the couch and crossed her arms. "Now, this is how you win points with your patients."

"Careful," Hannibal said as Matheson handed him a burger. "You're going to set the bar too high for future visits."

Matheson chuckled, handing Maggie the second burger before claiming a chair by the window. "I've been called worse than a hospital hero. Go on, dig in."

The wrapper crinkled as Hannibal unwrapped the burger. The scent of charbroiled beef and melted cheese wafted up. He took a bite, the smoky, juicy flavors bursting across his tongue. It wasn't the best burger he'd ever had, but after weeks of bland food, it might as well have been gourmet.

Maggie, sitting on the end of the bed, took a more measured approach, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin after each bite. "This almost makes me forget about the stacks of paperwork I've got waiting for me back home."

"I thought you thrived on paperwork nightmares," Hannibal said between bites, a fry dangling from his fingers.

"I thrive on organized chaos," she retorted, snatching a fry from his boat. "There's a difference."

Dr. Cooper, quietly leaning against the wall, plucked a fry from Maggie's stash. "Don't mind if I do," he said, popping it into his mouth. "Can't let you two have all the fun."

Matheson shook his head, laughing softly as he reached for the pie. "Remind me not to leave food unattended around any of you."

Hannibal leaned back, wiping his hands on a napkin. "You brought the good stuff. You should've known we'd pounce."

The group fell into an easy rhythm, the conversation drifting from light-hearted jabs about therapy to anecdotes from Maggie's clinic. Cooper regaled them with a story about a particularly stubborn patient who insisted on walking out of surgery against medical advice.

"Did he make it out?" Maggie asked, wide-eyed.

"He made it about two feet before collapsing," Cooper replied, shaking his head. "Some people just can't be told."

Hannibal chuckled, leaning his forearms on the table. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

"Don't get any ideas," Maggie shot back, half-seriously. "You're already a handful."

As the meal wound down, Matheson handed Hannibal the small tin holding the pie. "This one's for you. Call it an incentive to get through tomorrow."

Hannibal took it with a small nod, the warmth of the tin seeping into his hands. "Thanks, Doc. For the food and… everything else."

Matheson waved him off. "Just doing my job. You focus on healing."

Later, as the lights dimmed and the last bits of laughter faded into silence, Hannibal lay back in bed, the taste of apple pie still lingering on his tongue. For the first time in weeks, the room didn't feel quite so cold, and the weight of his upcoming surgery didn't press quite so heavily on his chest.