One afternoon you corner Marina with the question you’ve been swallowing for weeks.
“You talk like someone who’s done this for years,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing.
Her hands still on your forearm, she hesitates, and the air changes.
“My little brother had a motorcycle accident,” she admits.
“L2 damage, they said he’d never walk again.”
You hold your breath, because you can already feel where this story leads.
“I didn’t accept it,” she continues, eyes sharp with remembered fire.
“I studied neuroplasticity, progressive stimulation, protocols from everywhere I could find them.”
“And he walked again in eight months,” she finishes, and your stomach flips like the universe just offered you proof.