Recovery did not arrive all at once.
It came in increments so small they bordered on insult, measured not in milestones but in tolerances, in how long Zane could remain upright before the room tilted, in how many breaths he could draw without thinking about them, in how far his body would allow him to go before reminding him, without apology, that it had been pushed beyond reason.
Two weeks passed.
The days blurred into a rhythm dictated by schedules he did not control. Morning vitals that woke him before his body felt finished resting. Respiratory therapy that reduced breathing to a conscious act. Physical therapy sessions that stripped movement of grace and replaced it with mechanics. Meals he finished out of discipline rather than hunger. Rest that never felt complete, only paused.
His body obeyed again, but cautiously, as though trust had been broken and would not be restored quickly.
The first time they walked him into the corridor, the distance felt absurd.
