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      What does the Lord require of you

       but to do justice, to love kindness,

       and to walk humbly with your God?

      —Micah 6:8

      DEDICATION

      In memory of my mom, Arline. Without her,

       I would not have believed in this dream, and

       her endless love, support, encouragement and

       enthusiasm always meant the world to me. Mom,

       this one—as always—is for you.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      With many thanks to Licensed Physical Therapists

       Nancy Reilly and Erin Nicholas

       for answering my many questions about

       physical therapy. Any errors are mine alone.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Epilogue

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      Sophie stepped out of her ancient Taurus sedan but lingered at the open door, staring at the massive dog on the porch of the sprawling cabin. The dog stared back at her with laserlike intensity, head lowered and tail stiff.

      It was not a welcoming pose.

      But set back in the deep shadows of the pine trees crowding so close, the cabin itself—with all the windows dark—seemed even more menacing than a wolfhound mix with very sharp teeth.

      “Don’t worry about the dog,” Grace Dearborn had said with a breezy smile during Sophie’s orientation at the county home health department offices. “He’s quite the bluffer. It’s the owner who is more likely to bite.”

      From the spooky appearance of the dwelling, Sophie could imagine the home health care administrator’s words about this client being true in the most literal sense. Ominous clouds had rolled in earlier this afternoon, bringing heavy rains and lightning, and from the looks of the sky, the current respite would be brief.

      So what kind of person would be sitting in there, in all that gloomy darkness?

      She looked at the folder in her hand again.

      Dr. Josh McLaren. Widower. Lives alone. No local support system. Declined home health aides. Postsurgical healing of comminuted fracture, right leg with a knee replacement. Surgical repair of fractured L-4 and L-5 lumbar vertebrae, multiple comminuted fractures, right hand.

      There were no details on the accident itself. Had he been hit by a truck? She shuddered, imagining the pain he’d been through. The surgeries and therapy had to have been as bad as the injuries themselves.

      The only other documentation in the folder were the doctor’s physical therapy orders dated last year, originating from Lucas General Hospital in Minneapolis, and some scant, frustrated progress notes written by her various physical therapist predecessors.

      The last one had ignored professional convention by inserting his personal feelings into his notes.

      The man is surly and impossible.

      Ten minutes spent arguing about the need for therapy. Five minutes of deep massage of his right leg and strengthening exercises before he ordered me out of his house.

      And the final note…

      I give up. Doctor or not, McLaren is a highly unpleasant client and I will not be coming back here.

      Sophie scanned the documents again, searching for a birth date or mention of the man’s age, which was basic information present in the other nine case charts she’d been assigned. Thus far, nothing.

      Maybe this guy was an old duffer, like her grandfather. Crotchety and isolated and clinging to whatever measure of independence he could manage.

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