8. Chapter 8
Cade
The barn smells like hay and something medicinal, the combination that has become the scent of progress.
Quinn stands at the chalkboard marking adjustments to my resistance sequence while I work through the phase two protocols, and I watch her handwriting appear in neat red lines instead of watching her face.
"Your pronation is holding through the full range," she says without turning around. "We can add the weighted ball grip tomorrow."
"No actual throwing yet?"
"No actual throwing yet." She caps the chalk and finally looks at me. "But this is good. You're responding faster than the timeline predicted."
I finish the last rep and set the band down, rolling my shoulder to release the tension that builds when I concentrate this hard. "You sound surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm pleased." She makes a note in her folder. "There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Surprised means I didn't expect it. Pleased means you met the expectation I set when I agreed to come here." She closes the folder and tucks it under her arm. "Your tissue is doing exactly what it should when someone follows the protocol."
"Someone meaning me."
"Someone meaning you." The corner of her mouth lifts, just barely. "Most patients start pushing back around week four. You haven't."
I stand up from the treatment table and reach for my water bottle, using the movement to cover how much that admission means. Quinn doesn't give compliments. She gives data. I start winding the resistance bands before my face can give me away.
"Maybe I finally found a physical therapist scary enough to keep me honest."
"I'm not scary." She moves toward the bench where she keeps her supplies, organizing things that don't need organizing. "I'm thorough."
"Same thing, from where I'm sitting."
She glances over her shoulder. "You're standing."
"Figure of speech."
"I know." Another almost-smile. "I'm being difficult on purpose."
"I noticed."
The barn is quiet except for the distant sound of Noah's truck somewhere on the property, the engine noise fading as he drives toward the far pastures. Seven days of morning sessions, afternoon chores, and evenings on the porch where I play guitar and she pretends not to listen.
Enough time to learn each other's rhythms without acknowledging what we're learning.
Quinn finishes reorganizing the supply bench and turns to face me fully. "I need to file your progress report with Dr. Reyes this afternoon. He's requested video documentation of your range of motion."
"You want to film me doing band exercises?"
"I want to document that your recovery is proceeding within established medical parameters." She says it like she's reciting from a textbook, which tells me something else is going on. "The clinic has been asking questions about the out-of-state protocol."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind that require answers." She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them. Reaches for her wrist where her band sits, but doesn't snap it. "Kristen Vance submitted a formal inquiry about the documentation chain."
I set my water bottle down slowly. "Kristen Vance is the one who was watching your files in Boston."
"She's the senior PT coordinator. Watching files is her job."
"Watching files may be her job. Making your life difficult seems to be her hobby."
Quinn's jaw tightens. "I can handle Kristen."
"I'm sure you can. That doesn't mean you should have to." I take a step toward her, then stop myself because the barn suddenly feels smaller than it did thirty seconds ago. "What does she want?"
"Proof that this arrangement is clinically justified. That my presence here isn't..." She trails off, looking at something over my shoulder instead of at me.
"Isn't what?"
"Compromised."
The word sits between us like a physical object.
I think about the porch last night, how we played guitar together for almost an hour without speaking.
How she smiled at me when I figured out the bridge of the song she was working on.
How that smile made me forget that I was supposed to be thinking about baseball.
"Is it?" I ask, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Quinn's hand finally reaches her band. She twists it a few times, then drops her hand. "The documentation is clean. Every session note is filed within twenty-four hours. Every protocol adjustment is justified with measurable data."
"That's not what I asked."
"That's what matters." She holds my gaze for a long moment before looking away. "From a clinical standpoint, this arrangement is exemplary. Dr. Reyes has already noted that your progress represents some of the best conservative UCL outcomes his office has seen."
"From a clinical standpoint."
"Yes."
"And from a non-clinical standpoint?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, she picks up her folder and moves toward the barn door with the ease of someone who has practiced not looking back. "Session ends at ten. You're free until tomorrow morning unless I schedule supplemental work."
"Quinn."
She stops with her hand on the door frame, but doesn't turn around.
"I'm not trying to make this harder for you." I stay where I am because following her would be crossing a line neither of us has acknowledged exists. "Whatever Kristen is doing, whatever she's trying to prove, I'm not going to give her ammunition."
"I know." Her voice is quiet. "That's what makes this complicated."
She leaves before I can ask what she means.
I spend the afternoon helping Noah repair a section of irrigation line that feeds the south pasture.
The work is physical enough to keep my mind occupied and careful enough to stay within the parameters Quinn approved.
Noah doesn't talk much while we work, which I appreciate.
He asks occasional questions about the repair process and steps in when I'm about to do something the hard way, but he doesn't push for conversation.
It's only when we're finishing up, the sun dropping toward the mountains in a wash of orange and gold, that he finally speaks.
"Quinn told me about the inquiry from Boston."
I tighten the last fitting and sit back on my heels. "She mentioned it this morning."
"She's worried." Noah wipes his hands on his jeans and looks out toward the tree line. "She won't say that, but she's worried."
"About the documentation?"
"About what happens if someone decides the documentation isn't the point.
" He turns to face me, and I catch the lawyer he used to be underneath the rancher he's become.
"My sister built something in Boston. It took her years to recover from what happened before.
This job, this reputation, this career. It matters to her. "
"I know it matters."
"Do you?" His voice isn't hostile, just direct. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you matter to her too. And that's the part she doesn't know how to handle."
I don't have an answer for that.
I think about Quinn this morning, her almost-smile. I think about the guitar on the porch and how she played that Phoebe Bridgers progression like it was a conversation she didn't know how to have with words.
"I'm not going to hurt her," I say finally.
"Maybe not on purpose." Noah picks up his tools and starts toward the truck. "Come on. We're losing light."
Dinner passes without much conversation.
Paige came by earlier with groceries but didn't stay, claiming she had dogs to walk and fences to check.
I suspect she left because she could feel the tension in the house.
Quinn eats methodically, answering Noah's questions about ranch logistics with the same clinical precision she uses for everything, and I watch her without meaning to.
After the dishes are cleared, I take my guitar to the porch and play toward nothing in particular. The chords come easier here than they ever did in Boston. No cameras. No front office noise. Just the cattle and the stars and the woman inside who keeps finding reasons not to join me.
I'm working through a melody I can't quite place when the screen door opens.
Quinn stands in the doorway with her own guitar, the one she played last night. She doesn't say anything. Just sits down in the chair beside me and starts picking out a harmony line to what I'm playing, her fingers finding the notes like she's been waiting for this specific song her whole life.
We play together for maybe twenty minutes. No talking. Just the guitars and the night sounds and the occasional creak of the porch boards when one of us shifts position. It's the most honest conversation I've had in months.
When she finally stops playing, her hands still on the strings, she looks at me for a long moment without speaking.
"I filed the progress report," she says. "Dr. Reyes approved the phase two advancement. You're officially ahead of schedule."
"That's good news."
"It is good news." She sets her guitar aside and leans back in the chair, looking up at the stars. "Kristen requested a video call with the full medical and PR leadership. Friday morning. I'm supposed to present the Montana protocol and justify the arrangement."
"I can be there. If that helps."
"It might help the documentation." She turns her head to look at me. "It might also make things worse."
"How?"
"Because you're not the kind of patient who fades into the background." Her voice is quiet, almost soft. "And I'm not sure I'm the kind of therapist who can pretend you don't affect me."
I set my guitar down carefully, buying time to figure out what to say.
"Quinn."
"Don't." She holds up a hand. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. Not yet. I need to get through Friday first. I need to prove that this arrangement is working for the right reasons before I can think about anything else."
"And after Friday?"
She stands up, picking up her guitar. In the porch light, her face is half in shadow, unreadable. "After Friday, we'll see what's left."
She goes inside. The screen door closes behind her with a soft click.
I sit on the porch for a long time after she's gone, playing the same melody over and over. The light in her window goes on.
I keep playing.