Mack felt even more stressed and tired as he pushed toward the other side. How the hell did Stockard do this every day, anyway? The guy had been in decent shape before his accident, but he was no athlete, not by a mile.
Mack, on the other hand, had gotten letters in high school football and baseball. He had worked out semiregularly, not so much in the past few months maybe, but still, he could be considered in at least reasonably good shape. Yet here he was, struggling to reach the far side of the pool.
He tried pushing his legs – this was supposed to be about his legs, not his arms. But they wouldn’t respond. They were never going to respond, he thought, despite what the doctors said.
He’d known that the moment he opened his eyes in the hotel in Brunei. Breanna was there, looking over him. He’d seen that look in her face, and he knew. If anyone was an expert on whether people would walk or not, it was Breanna.
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