Chapter 6 Dependency
The Worst Fear
Deck hated physical therapy.
He hated occupational therapy even more.
At least physical therapy only attacked one part of his body at a time.
Occupational therapy seemed determined to attack his pride.
The realization settled heavily over him as he sat inside the rehabilitation room at Willow Ridge Medical Center on a gray Tuesday morning.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and rubber exercise bands.
Everything felt normal.
Unfortunately, normal had recently become synonymous with miserable.
Finn stood across from him reviewing notes on a tablet.
The doctor looked annoyingly awake.
Annoyingly calm.
Annoyingly optimistic.
Deck suspected medical school somehow trained doctors to function without normal human emotions.
It was the only explanation.
"Ready?"
The question immediately irritated him.
"No."
Finn nodded.
"Good."
Deck frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means your answer is consistent."
The mechanic stared.
The doctor smiled.
Deck hated that smile.
Not because it was unattractive.
Quite the opposite.
That was part of the problem.
The younger man looked unfairly good for someone whose primary hobby involved making patients suffer.
The realization annoyed him.
Everything annoyed him lately.
Especially himself.
The therapy session began.
The first exercises focused on mobility.
Simple movements.
Repeated motions.
Controlled stretches.
The kind of activities that looked easy until you tried doing them with damaged hands.
Pain arrived almost immediately.
Nothing unbearable.
Just constant.
Persistent.
The sort of discomfort that slowly wore people down.
Finn watched carefully.
Making occasional notes.
Offering instructions.
Adjusting movements.
Deck tolerated it because there wasn't much choice.
Recovery required work.
The mechanic understood that.
Didn't mean he had to enjoy it.
The first thirty minutes passed without incident.
The second thirty minutes proved significantly worse.
Today's grip-strength evaluation involved several fine-motor exercises.
Small movements.
Precise movements.
Movements his hands refused to perform correctly.
The first task involved picking up a series of small metal pins.
Simple.
Embarrassingly simple.
Or it should have been.
Deck stared at the tiny object resting on the table.
Then reached for it.
His fingers closed.
Pain shot through his hand.
The pin slipped.
Falling back onto the table.
The sound felt louder than it should have.
Neither man spoke.
The mechanic tried again.
And again.
And again.
The result remained identical.
Failure.
Tiny.
Ridiculous.
Humiliating failure.
The pin might as well have weighed a hundred pounds.
Finn quietly adjusted the exercise.
Deck immediately hated that too.
The doctor wasn't judging him.
Wasn't criticizing him.
Wasn't doing anything wrong.
The kindness somehow made everything worse.
Because pity felt easier to handle than patience.
Patience implied hope.
Hope created expectations.
Expectations created disappointment.
The next exercise went badly too.
Then the one after that.
By the time an hour passed, frustration had settled into every muscle in his body.
The worst part wasn't the pain.
It wasn't even the failure.
It was the comparison.
Because Deck remembered exactly what his hands used to do.
He remembered rebuilding engines without thinking.
Remembered identifying problems by touch alone.
Remembered working twelve-hour shifts covered in grease and exhaustion.
Those memories felt cruel now.
Like reminders of someone else.
Someone stronger.
Someone more capable.
Someone who hadn't exploded across a garage floor.
The thought darkened his mood further.
Finn eventually set aside another therapy device.
The doctor clearly recognized the signs.
Unfortunately.
"Take a break."
Deck laughed.
Short.
Bitter.
"From what?"
Finn remained calm.
"Asking for a break isn't weakness."
The mechanic looked away.
Toward the window.
Toward the rain.
Anywhere except the doctor.
Weakness.
The word lingered.
Dangerous.
Because that was the real problem.
Not the injuries.
Not the pain.
Weakness.
The feeling of it.
The sight of it.
The constant reminder that he couldn't do things he once considered effortless.
The realization followed him everywhere.
At home.
At therapy.
At night.
Especially at night.
The exercises resumed.
Another task.
Another failure.
This time the frustration finally won.
The therapy ball slipped from his hand.
Bounced across the floor.
Rolled beneath a cabinet.
Silence followed.
Deck stared at the empty space where it had been.
Then at his hand.
Then back again.
Something inside him cracked.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
The way things often broke.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Hotter.
The air heavier.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
The mechanic stood.
Too quickly.
Pain flared through his ribs.
He barely noticed.
"I'm done."
The words sounded rough.
Sharp.
Final.
Finn didn't move.
Didn't argue.
Didn't immediately try fixing things.
The restraint somehow made it harder.
"Deck."
The doctor spoke softly.
The mechanic turned away.
Jaw clenched.
Hands aching.
Everything aching.
"I'm done."
Another silence followed.
Longer this time.
The room remained quiet except for distant sounds from the clinic hallway.
People moving.
Phones ringing.
Life continuing.
Meanwhile, he couldn't pick up a damn therapy ball.
The humiliation burned.
Hotter than anger.
Hotter than pain.
The feeling settled somewhere deep inside him.
The place he'd spent years pretending didn't exist.
Finn's voice broke through the silence again.
"Talk to me."
The request sounded simple.
Reasonable.
Impossible.
Deck laughed.
The sound held no humor whatsoever.
"About what?"
The doctor didn't answer immediately.
Probably because they both knew the answer.
The mechanic finally looked up.
Meeting those steady blue eyes.
The concern he found there felt genuine.
Not professional.
Personal.
The realization caught him off guard.
Dangerously off guard.
"About what's actually bothering you."
The words landed softly.
Directly.
No judgment.
No pressure.
Just honesty.
The kind Finn seemed incapable of avoiding.
Deck looked away again.
The silence stretched.
Every instinct screamed at him to leave.
To change the subject.
To shut down the conversation.
Instead, exhaustion won.
Weeks of frustration.
Weeks of pain.
Weeks of pretending everything was fine.
The weight became too heavy.
For once.
Just once.
The truth slipped free.
"I can't do anything."
The confession emerged quietly.
Barely above a whisper.
Finn didn't interrupt.
Didn't rush to reassure him.
The doctor simply listened.
The mechanic stared at his hands.
The same hands that had defined most of his life.
Bandages were gone now.
The scars remained.
The weakness remained.
The uncertainty remained.
Everything remained.
"My whole life..."
His voice faltered.
The words felt unfamiliar.
Difficult.
Raw.
"My whole life I've worked with these."
The doctor remained silent.
Allowing the truth room to exist.
Deck swallowed hard.
Suddenly unable to look anywhere except his own hands.
"I know engines."
The confession continued.
"I know metal."
His throat tightened.
"I know how to fix things."
The final words emerged rough.
Broken.
Honest.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
The mechanic took a shaky breath.
Then another.
Finally admitting the fear he'd been carrying since the explosion.
The fear he'd avoided naming.
Because naming it made it real.
"What if I can't?"
The question hung between them.
Heavy.
Terrifying.
Finn didn't speak.
Not yet.
Deck looked up.
Meeting the doctor's gaze.
The fear remained visible now.
Impossible to hide.
Impossible to deny.
"What if they never work the same again?"
The room fell completely silent.
And for the first time since the explosion, Declan Harlan admitted the truth.
He wasn't afraid of pain.
He wasn't afraid of recovery.
He wasn't even afraid of failure.
He was terrified that the hands he'd built his entire life around might never truly come back.
Breaking Point
Finn knew something was wrong before Deck missed an appointment.
The signs had started days earlier.
Small changes.
Subtle changes.
The kind most people overlooked.
Fortunately, paying attention to details was part of his job.
The mechanic had become quieter.
Not physically quieter.
Emotionally quieter.
The sarcasm remained.
The complaints remained.
The grumbling definitely remained.
But something underneath had shifted.
After the disastrous therapy session earlier in the week, Deck seemed different.
More distant.
More guarded.
The honesty he'd shown inside the rehabilitation room appeared to have frightened him.
Finn understood why.
Vulnerability rarely came naturally to people who spent their lives pretending they didn't need anyone.
Especially men like Declan Harlan.
The mechanic had spent years building walls.
One emotional confession wasn't enough to tear them down.
The problem was that once those walls cracked, pretending they weren't damaged became exhausting.
And Deck was exhausted.
Finn saw it every day.
The doctor sat inside his office late Thursday afternoon reviewing patient notes.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
The clinic remained busy despite the weather.
Most of his appointments had finished.
Only paperwork remained.
Unfortunately, paperwork seemed endless.
A knock interrupted his concentration.
Rebecca entered carrying several files.
"You're still here."
Finn looked up.
"So are you."
The nurse rolled her eyes.
"Bad life choices."
The answer made him smile.
Rebecca dropped into a nearby chair.
The movement immediately told him something was coming.
The woman rarely sat unless she wanted to gossip.
Or complain.
Sometimes both.