She looked at the brace. «We can try static stand therapy with parallel bars, 30 seconds a day. Just pressure bearing, then we’ll see.»
He looked away. «You don’t know what it feels like to fall in front of soldiers who once saluted you,» he said.
«I do,» she replied, her voice lower. «Not physically, but I know what it feels like to be dismissed my whole life.»
He turned back slowly. She nodded toward the gym. «Give me 30 days. If I fail, you’ll never hear from me again.»
He studied her. Every instinct screamed to protect his pride, but something deep was shifting. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. Instead, with the field watching, he nodded once. Private Nyla Carter picked up her bag and walked away. That nod was the first step.
The next morning, just after 0600, General Strickland wheeled into the rehabilitation wing of the base gym. Dust clung to the equipment like memory. No one expected him there, except one person.
Private First Class Nyla Carter was ready, sleeves rolled up, bars cleaned, tension cords unpacked, her expression focused. She didn’t salute when he entered, as he had instructed. «Braces are warm and ready,» she said, nodding toward the padded parallel bars.
«Thirty seconds, that’s all we aim for today?» He didn’t answer, just rolled forward and locked his chair. Nyla attached stabilizers to his thighs and calves with clinical precision.
Her hands moved without hesitation, her tone steady. «Tell me if anything feels wrong,» she said.
«It already does,» he muttered, but he let her lift him.
With her arm around his back and the braces holding his knees, Strickland gripped the bars. Nyla stayed close, anchoring his side like a pillar. «All right,» she whispered, «now bear weight, just shift.»
His arms trembled. Pain flashed behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak it. She saw it anyway. «Keep breathing.»
His feet stayed planted, his knees beginning to hold. Seconds passed—ten, then twenty. She didn’t cheer or count aloud, just breathed with him, staying grounded. At 30 seconds, she leaned closer. «Now sit, sir.» He collapsed into the chair, drenched in sweat—not from exertion, but from confronting the fear buried in his spine.
She knelt in front of him. «You did it.»
«I didn’t move,» he said, looking at his legs.
«You stood. You bore your own weight,» she replied, removing the straps. «Your body remembered.»
Day after day, they met. Some mornings were worse—pain spiked, or he hadn’t slept. He cursed under his breath, and she handed him a towel, helping him try again. Slowly, 30 seconds became a minute, then two. By the third week, his hands trembled less. He could shift his weight forward.
On day 21, Nyla stood slightly farther back, watching him stabilize without her touch. That night, alone in his quarters, General Strickland looked in the mirror. His face was leaner, his shoulders more defined, but it was his eyes that surprised him—alive, not with pride, but presence.
By the fourth week, they stopped tracking seconds and began counting steps. Two on the first day, assisted and clunky, then four, then six. One morning, Nyla entered the gym to find the braces already on. Strickland stood at the edge of the bars, waiting.
She blinked. He lifted his head. «You’re late, Private.»
She smirked. «Sir, I’ve been here, just watching.» That day, he took ten steps between the bars.
The gym staff, once indifferent, now paused to glance over. A few clapped quietly. Word spread. By month’s end, a small ceremony was held on the same field where it began. Most soldiers expected another promotion pinning. Instead, they stood stunned as General Strickland rolled forward, locked his wheels, and stood with effort.