But they hold.
One second.
Two.
Three.
I'm standing. Actually standing. My weight on my own two feet for the first time in?—
Four seconds.
Five.
The shaking gets worse. My thighs burn like someone's holding a blowtorch to them.
Six.
Seven.
Will's eyes are wide. His clipboard forgotten.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
My left knee starts to give. I grip the bars harder. Force it to lock.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Sweat drips down my face. My jaw aches from clenching.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
I drop back into the wheelchair.
My chest heaves. My arms shake. My legs feel like they've been filled with concrete and set on fire.
But I did it.
Fifteen seconds.
Will stares at me. His mouth opens. Closes.
"Don't," I say before he can speak. "Don't say a word. Don't write it down. Don't tell anyone."
"But Mr. Sartori, this is incredible progress. If the doctors knew?—"
"The doctors don't need to know." I wheel myself to the water bottle on the bench. Take a long drink. "No one needs to know."
"I don't understand. This is good news. This means?—"