Chapter 5 Small Kindnesses
Settling In
Finn hadn't planned on living with a patient.
Even now, a week into the arrangement, the idea still felt slightly ridiculous.
Medical school certainly hadn't covered situations where a stubborn mechanic lived forty minutes from town, refused outside assistance, and required enough daily care that driving back and forth became impractical.
Yet somehow, here he was.
Sharing a farmhouse with Declan Harlan.
Life was strange.
The farmhouse itself wasn't what Finn had expected.
The outside looked rough around the edges. The porch needed repairs. The paint had faded in several places. The old barn sitting beyond the house had clearly seen better decades.
Inside, however, the place felt surprisingly comfortable.
Deck kept everything clean.
Organized.
Functional.
There were books scattered across shelves in the living room. Framed photographs occupied various surfaces. Old records filled a cabinet near the fireplace.
The house felt lived in.
Not neglected.
Not abandoned.
Just quiet.
Very quiet.
Which made sense.
The mechanic had spent years living alone.
Finn stood in the kitchen early Monday morning while coffee brewed nearby.
Sunlight streamed through the windows.
The farmhouse remained peaceful.
For now.
The peace wouldn't last.
It never did.
Especially not when therapy sessions were involved.
A floorboard creaked upstairs.
Moments later, heavy footsteps followed.
Deck appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a faded black T-shirt.
His hair looked slightly disheveled.
His expression looked thoroughly unimpressed with life.
Some things never changed.
The mechanic glanced toward the coffee maker.
Then toward Finn.
Then back toward the coffee maker.
Priorities.
"Morning."
The greeting sounded more like a complaint.
Finn smiled.
"Good morning."
Deck grunted.
Apparently that counted as conversation.
The mechanic approached the counter and attempted reaching for a coffee mug.
Finn watched.
Carefully.
The injuries had improved.
Noticeably.
Bandages covered less skin now.
Movement had increased.
Strength continued returning.
The recovery remained encouraging.
Unfortunately, recovery also meant patients becoming overconfident.
Exactly as expected.
The coffee mug slipped.
Not completely.
Just enough.
The mechanic caught it before disaster occurred.
His jaw tightened.
Finn pretended not to notice.
Deck appreciated that.
At least he seemed to.
The coffee eventually made it into the mug.
A victory.
Small victories mattered.
Especially these days.
The two men settled into an easy silence.
Something that would've surprised Finn two weeks earlier.
Initially, every interaction felt like a negotiation.
A battle.
An argument waiting to happen.
Now things felt different.
Not easier exactly.
But familiar.
The doctor understood Deck better.
And the mechanic seemed increasingly willing to tolerate his existence.
Progress came in many forms.
Even unusual ones.
After breakfast came exercises.
Deck hated exercises.
Passionately.
The hatred remained entirely mutual.
Unfortunately for both of them, therapy wasn't optional.
Finn spread several rehabilitation tools across the dining table.
Resistance bands.
Hand-strengthening equipment.
Mobility aids.
The sight immediately darkened the mechanic's mood.
"Absolutely not."
Finn ignored him.
A practiced skill.
The equipment remained where it was.
The doctor reviewed the daily schedule.
The mechanic glared.
The schedule survived.
Another victory.
Small.
Important.
The morning session began predictably.
Complaints.
Arguments.
Sarcasm.
Deck supplied all three generously.
Finn remained unmoved.
Experience helped.
The exercises focused primarily on hand mobility.
Progress continued steadily.
Not dramatically.
Slowly.
Recovery often worked that way.
Patients hated it.
Bodies ignored opinions.
The session lasted nearly an hour.
By the end, both men looked exhausted.
For entirely different reasons.
The mechanic collapsed into a chair.
Looking personally offended by rehabilitation itself.
Finn recorded progress notes.
Trying not to smile.
Trying and failing.
Deck noticed immediately.
Suspicious gray eyes narrowed.
"You enjoying this?"
The doctor looked up.
"Watching you recover?"
"No."
The mechanic pointed.
"This."
The gesture apparently meant everything.
The complaints.
The arguments.
The suffering.
Finn considered the question.
Honestly.
"A little."
Deck looked betrayed.
The reaction made the smile worse.
The mechanic muttered something involving doctors.
None of it complimentary.
The day continued.
The pattern repeated itself throughout the week.
Mornings began with coffee.
Therapy followed.
Medication.
Exercises.
Recovery.
The routine slowly established itself.
Despite his complaints, Deck followed instructions.
Mostly.
Not perfectly.
Not willingly.
But consistently.
That mattered.
More importantly, improvement became visible.
The swelling continued decreasing.
Mobility increased.
Strength gradually returned.
The changes remained small enough to frustrate the mechanic.
Large enough to encourage the doctor.
One afternoon, Finn found himself sitting on the farmhouse porch completing patient notes.
The weather had finally improved.
Warm sunlight stretched across the property.
The surrounding fields glowed green beneath the spring sky.
A gentle breeze moved through nearby trees.
Peaceful.
The setting felt worlds away from city hospitals.
One of the reasons he'd accepted the position.
The front door opened.
Deck stepped outside carrying a glass of water.
The mechanic settled into a nearby chair.
The silence between them felt comfortable now.
Not awkward.
Not forced.
Simply quiet.
For several minutes neither spoke.
The doctor worked.
The mechanic watched the fields.
Eventually curiosity won.
It usually did.
"How long have you lived here?"
The question surprised him.
Deck rarely initiated conversations.
The mechanic shrugged.
"Eight years."
Finn looked up.
"That's a long time."
Another shrug.
Apparently communication remained optional.
The doctor smiled slightly.
"Why Willow Ridge?"
The mechanic remained silent for a while.
Long enough that Finn assumed the conversation was over.
Then an answer came.
Unexpectedly.
"I needed somewhere quiet."
The words sounded simple.
Yet something about them felt heavier.
The doctor didn't push.
Some stories revealed themselves slowly.
The silence returned.
Comfortable once again.
Finn found himself enjoying moments like this.
The glimpses beneath the rough exterior.
The reminders that Declan Harlan contained far more depth than most people realized.
Including, perhaps, Declan Harlan himself.
The following Friday brought trouble.
Not unusual trouble.
Therapy trouble.
The worst kind.
Recovery rarely followed a straight line.
Progress advanced.
Setbacks followed.
The pattern frustrated patients endlessly.
Today's setback arrived during a grip-strength assessment.
The exercise looked simple.
Squeeze.
Hold.
Release.
Normally, Deck performed the task adequately.
Today proved different.
Pain flared unexpectedly.
The injured hand trembled.
The grip failed.
The device slipped.
Clattering against the floor.
Silence followed.
Dangerous silence.
Finn immediately recognized the warning signs.
The mechanic's shoulders stiffened.
His jaw tightened.
Frustration surged visibly.
The setback wasn't significant medically.
Emotionally, however, it landed like a hammer.
Because progress mattered.
Proof mattered.
The inability to perform something he'd managed days earlier felt devastating.
The room grew quiet.
Deck stared at his hand.
Motionless.
Anger slowly giving way to something worse.
Discouragement.
The sight hurt.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Because Finn knew exactly what the mechanic was thinking.
Not recovering fast enough.
Not strong enough.
Not good enough.
The same fears returning.
Again.
The doctor crouched beside him.
Carefully.
Giving space.
Offering presence.
Nothing more.
For several moments neither spoke.
The silence remained necessary.
Eventually Finn broke it.
"This doesn't erase progress."
Deck laughed.
Short.
Humorless.
"Feels like it."
The honesty surprised him.
The mechanic rarely admitted things like that.
The doctor nodded.
Because sometimes agreement mattered more than reassurance.
"I know."
The simple response seemed to catch Deck off guard.
Finn continued.
"Bad days happen."
The mechanic looked away.
Toward the floor.
Toward failure.
Toward disappointment.
"Getting tired of bad days."
The confession emerged quietly.
Raw.
Real.
The doctor felt something tighten in his chest.
Because beneath the frustration sat genuine exhaustion.
Months of recovery stretched ahead.
The reality felt overwhelming.
Anyone would struggle.
Even stubborn mechanics.
Especially stubborn mechanics.
Finn remained beside him.
Steady.
Patient.
Present.
The silence stretched.
Not uncomfortable.
Supportive.
Eventually Deck took a breath.
Then another.
The tension slowly eased.
The moment passed.
Not completely.
Enough.
The doctor handed back the grip device.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just opportunity.
Several seconds passed.
Then the mechanic accepted it.
One more attempt.
The grip held.
Not perfectly.
Not strongly.
Successfully.
Progress.
Small.
Important.
The session eventually ended.
The storm had passed.
At least for today.
Finn packed away equipment while Deck remained seated.
The room felt calmer now.
Lighter.
The doctor finished organizing supplies and turned toward the door.
A voice stopped him.
Unexpected.
Quiet.
Almost hesitant.
"Finn."
The doctor looked back.
The mechanic stared at the floor.
Not at him.
Several seconds passed.
Then the words arrived.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
Completely sincere.
"Thanks."
The room fell silent.
Finn blinked.