Down To Business

Riley

I've come to consider myself a bit of an expert on pain.

This isn't the first time I've broken a bone. I was a rather reckless kid growing up in a rough neighborhood, with a single mother who worked all the time. I've had a broken arm, a broken nose, a cracked shin.  I've broken fingers fighting more than once.

It's not that I'm accident prone. All those injuries came from fighting. I'm only 180cm as an adult. As a kid I was much lessing promising than that. Being a bit of a scrapper was how I compensated for the bullying.

The tough guy thing eventually led to the punk music thing. I was in my first band at fourteen. By the time I was seventeen, I was out of my mother's house, living in a dirty flat with my bandmates. We had actually learned how to play well, write songs, and even landed regular gigs. All own our own. No musical training. No mentorship. All hustle. All my hustle, really. I was the Trace of my band. The driver. The guitarist. Except I had no Leed. I had a Mac. My girl Priscilla was the front, with me matching her on most songs for vocals.

We weren't bad, but we didn't make the big time, of course. Went the other way. Into an endless cycle of hand to mouth. Spending the money we'd earn at gigs the minute we got it. Not on the rent, either.

On booze. On drugs.

On pain.

Yeah, we were Trainspotting with amps and electric guitars.

Except, there wasn't only pain. There was, between Priscilla and I, something much like love. I was only seventeen, and I was high as the London Tower most of the time, but I did love her. I wanted to get us out of that flat, that cycle, that pain. I wanted to make us rich and famous and pain free. Hell, I even wanted to marry her. Wasn't long before I gave her a fucking ring. Eighteen. I gave her a ring.

She said yes.

Then she cheated. With our bass player Avery Thompson.

Thompson is dead now, from a bullet in his brain.

By no means did I put the bullet there. He earned that himself, years and years later, the miserable fucking fuck.

But Priscilla is dead too, from a needle in her arm.

That happened just days after she cheated on me.

My fault. My rage. My drugs.

It's a miracle I didn't follow right after. God knows I tried.

My mum saved my life then. She's not ever done much for me otherwise, but she did save my life, then.

She had me arrested for stealing some shite around her place, but delinquency in the UK is not treated in quite the same as it is here in the US. There was a bit more rehabilitation and little less punishment in the mix of my consequences. I was such a fucking mess I got sent to hospital. Detox, then suicide watch, then a rehabilitation program .I got proper medical treatment and counseling for my drug problem, and there were educational opportunities, too. That's how I reoriented, from the stage to the business end of the music business.

But I never forgot the pain of my youth.

Not until Rowan del Marco.

I was able to put away the pain for a little while.

Then the troubles started again.

What do they say?

Marry in haste, repent at leisure?

We definitely married in haste.

Row was the victim of a kidnapping. She was terrorized by criminals, and stabbed in the hand by another murderous bastard who deserved the bullet that ended his life, too. That stabbing caused nerve damage in her hand and ended her promising career as the lead guitarist and front of her all-girl band, Strut, whom I managed as I do her brother's band.  She was brave, very brave, about the entire thing, but she didn't want to front Strut if she couldn't also play the guitar.

She immediately pivoted.

The first thing she did was switch gears to acting. That was smart. She has considerable charisma in front of the camera.

The second thing she did was maybe not so smart.

While she recovered from her trauma, we were taking a little R&R in the Florida Keys, and she asked me to marry her over a bottle of tequila.

Ask is perhaps a mild verb for how the situation unfolded.

We went shot for shot, debating the pro's and cons of marrying.

She layed out her proposal. She'd thought she was going to die, and in that moment she had wanted me and only me. She knew she was young, but she'd grown up fast and lived a lot. Having been all around the block and backwards, she knew that what we had was different. Real love, she said. The business was hard without someone at your back. We could have each other's backs in every way, she said. As husband and wife, as manager and talent. We'd already been through hard things together. We'd battled through her father's disapproval of our relationship. We'd made a child together, and lost it and grieved it, and that had only deepened our love.

I rebutted each one of her arguments.

Marrying on the heels of a harrowing trauma seemed less than wise. Row was twenty and I twenty-nine, and though she might think she was experienced—most of her experience had to do with sex, drugs, and rock n roll. She was actually quite sheltered, in terms of adulting. Row was up for a tv series being filmed in New Zealand and I am required by my work to be where Soundcrush is...mostly LA, which meant we would live half our lives on separate continents. It would be hard to have each other's backs under those circumstances. And the difficulties she felt as though we'd battled through? I viewed as a surrender. She actually never stood up to her father's disapproval of us nor did she even tell me she was pregnant until she was miscarrying. In the end, her father accepted us because he pitied her loss, and I moved into her suite in her parents' house with her to comfort that same loss.  She was right about one thing, however. The child we lost drew us closer together. We had never been the kind of comfort to one another that we became in that time.

Still, there were a dozen other practical reasons I had reservations.  Row is messy, I am neat.  Row has grown up ridiculously rich and accustomed to living her parents' lifestyle. She had unbelievably expensive tastes and outrageous spending habits. Habits she and I could not afford independent of her father's wealth, despite our healthy bank accounts. Row is quick tempered but also forgives easily. I am slow to anger, but hold grudges. Those extremes are not well-suited temperaments. Row lives impulsively, and everything I do involves a tedious calculus. Row is still young enough that she enjoys drugs, and I conquered my taste for them long ago. Even worse, I harbor a silent terror for her in that regard. For anyone really, who abuses drugs. That terror often surfaces in the form of extreme disapproval.

We went back and forth on the matter. We drank the whole damn bottle but she got the last shot.

And the last word.

Giving her the last shot and the closing point on the debate was another tedious calculus on my part. It was a near thing, parceling the tequila to come out like that. I knew the moment she proposed it, I would marry her. I had only made the arguments so that I could remind her later that I had warned her we'd have conflicts, when they arose. Which they did, of course. But by then, it was too late. We would be required to resolve them reasonably. After all, we'd be  married.

I rather enjoyed letting her think she won me over, when in fact I was more than willing to marry her. I had almost lost her to a gang of murderous thugs. My only goal in life at that point was to see Row safe and healed from her experience. I understood completely that none the reasons she had given were the real reason she wanted to marry.

She wanted to marry me to feel safe.

And no wisdom, no logic, no amount of good reasons could have stood against my love for her and my need to give her that safety. Nor could they have conquered my own prideful arrogance.

I thought if I married her, I could keep her safe, by diffusing her wild ways with my love. I thought I could tame her.

Not break her. Just tame her. I loved her spirit. I just needed her...slightly less reckless and more willing to cooperate.

So I agreed to marry her, but I began right away, pushing back on her whims.

I insisted we marry sober. I insisted we marry quietly, without fanfare.

It was accomplished the very next afternoon, in a cheap chapel. I put on a crimson suit, she went to an upscale boutique and bought the most expensive, avant-garde and yet strangest ensemble she could find. A white suede dress with a fringe and cowboy hat that matched my jacket. She bought me a blue tungsten wedding band—on her fathers Black Amex, I'm sure. I bought her a ring that emptied my emergency savings account, and a dramatic bouquet of holiday flowers. I insisted on the best photographer we could find on short notice. Row looked beautiful with her gray hair and goth makeup and whimsical choice of wedding dress. True to herself. A rocker bride giving the finger to convention. I wanted someone skilled at capturing the spirit of a star.

She still has a canvas that hangs in her parents' house, but there used to be a larger canvas of the best shot that hung above our bed in our more modest home. It's been gone about seven months now, since the last season of Girl Band was released for bingeing. I'd forced her to watch the fourth episode love scene of her character and Aidan Mosteller's. When she refused to sit through it, I burned the portrait in the fire pit. She did watch that...until the portrait was nothing but ashes.

That was the night I told her I was done. That I was sure I couldn't forgive, and that I would file for divorce.

Right. So you see, I thought I was an expert on pain.

But now, I'm in a different kind of pain.

It's not...more...it's just...bloody distracting from the emotional kind.

It's mid morning. Row is asleep on the uncomfortable-looking couch across the room, although it could hardly be less comfortable than this bed.  I'm watching the clock, impatiently waiting for the time when I can have more nonnarcotic pain medication.

When I can't bear the ache in my back anymore, I try adjusting the bed. It wakes Row at once. She rises, looking something like Cousin It with her straw-like mass of unkempt bleached hair falling almost to her waist. After the first season, Row removed the extensions and died her hair back to its natural dark brown during hiatus. The producers had a fit. They prefer Row staying in character during personal appearances. So since then, Row hasn't looked like herself at all, but like some kind of cross between Courtney Love and Taylor Momsen.

I despise "Stella" on Row. Always really, because there is something Priscilla-eque about her look, but especially now that I equate "Stella" with "Lars"—Mostellar's character. Also on principle. It seems to me that staying in character physically encourages Row stay in character with Stella's lifestyle choices.  "Stella's" beauty has steadily declined over the show's three seasons as her character's drug habit ramped up, but in truth so has Row's health. For the last three years she has abused diet pills, doesn't eat, sleeps little, doesn't exercise because she has no energy, drinks too much and generally lives like a person who doesn't view a life past thirty as a life worth having.

A frightful thought pops into my head. I am not much past thirty. What kind of life will I be living from here on out? One in a wheel chair? One stripped of mobility? Dignity?

Will my life be worth living?

"Fuck," I mutter. This is entirely my doing. I drove drunk and I could have hurt someone else, so I deserve the injuries I've inflicted on myself. That's perhaps the most difficult part of this to accept.

Row has heard my muttered curse and she's risen more hastily now, coming to my side. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" I hiss. "What's wrong, she says." I gesture to the air. To her I add. "Don't say stupid things, Row."

"Riley," she sighs. "I understand you're in pain. And you're miserable. And you're scared."

"I'm not scared—"

"Fine, you're not scared. But you're incredibly angry. Mostly at yourself. Because you're the one that did something stupid, right? And that's not something you ever do."

"Reminding me isn't exactly promoting a positive mood, here, Rowan," I hiss,trying to adjust myself.

"Well, you might feel better if you try not being an asshole to me. It hasn't worked to improve your mood in the last year, has it?"  she says lightly. "And I'll work not to say stupid things. I should have said...can I help you?"

She doesn't touch me like she did last night, probably because I'm so goddamn prickly.

I swallow down my anger. "Perhaps we could try another pillow."

She retrieves one from the cabinet and stands awkwardly by my bed. "Maybe we should call the nurse," she says. "They kept you practically knocked out for days to keep you immobile but I don't know how much you are supposed to be moving now..."

I protest, but she calls anyway. The nurse comes down and gives me a lecture about sitting up in this position, then realizes no one has properly educated us on the guidelines since I've barely been awake since the surgery. That's how I end up flat on my back again with instructions to incline the bed for no more than twenty minutes at a time. She puts the pillow under my legs. I have to admit, the position does decrease my pain, but increases my bad mood.

"When is the bloody doctor coming? I have questions," I hiss at the nurse.

"The doctor is in," a cheerful familar voice drawls. "And she's a pretty gorgeous one at that."

Christ. Visitors? Really?

Bodie and Marley stand outside the door, a study in opposites. Bodie is muscular, Marley is thin. Bodie looks somewhat dangerous even in jeans and a t shirt, Marley is the very picture of a lady in slacks and heels.  Both are biracial; Bodie is brown skinned and Marley is fair. Bodie is putting on a jovial smile, Marley's expression is her psychologist face—kind but completely neutral.

"How ya feelin', man?"

"Peachy," I sneer.

Bodie sighs, runs a hand over his short hair and says, "Yeah, I bet."

I do my best to smile at Marley, who is in fact, not just my employee but over the years has become one of my closest friends, allies, and confidantes. "Hello, Gorgeous," I say. That's usually what I call her in a casual setting. Either that or Doc. My father-in-law gave her the nickname Doc Gorgeous some years ago and pretty much everyone in the industry calls her that. "How's the little one?"

Marley beams. Her daughter is not quite two months old. She's not with them, of course. The hospital is no place for infants. "She's...perfect. But I have to say...it's nice to be out of the house this morning."

"It's the first time we've left her," Bodie says, squeezing Marley's shoulder.

"And you came here? That's a very poor decision," I scoff. "You should have gone out for a nice lunch instead."

"Well, actually, we know you aren't up to visitors, Riley, but we thought Row could use a break..." Marley smiles at Row, who could definitely use a break, but I doubt she will go.

"No, I'm fine," Row says automatically, backing away into the corner. I almost laugh at that. Does she think Bodie is going to drag her out of the room?

Hmmmm. Perhaps. He's giving her a look I'm familiar with, one that says he won't take no for an answer. "Girl, let's go. You know damn good and well our house is ten minutes from here. You can't get away for a break anywhere that's closer and private. And he'll be in good hands..." he gestures at his wife, who is is the Soundcrush road manager, a psychologist who no longer practices except to offer a soundboard to her rock star clients, and an all-around formidable woman.

"I'll sit with Riley, if he doesn't mind," Marley gestures with her hand, asking permission to come in. Ha. She never asks permission to barge into my office at work. Honestly though, I'd welcome her company. It's much less charged than Row's.

"Rowan," I say giving her a look. "Go get a shower and something to eat."

"What if the doctor comes?"

"I am perfectly capable of communicating with him. My legs might not work but my bloody brain still does," I snap at her.

I don't have to turn to them, to see Bodie and Marley exchanging a look.

"Come on, girl. Let's stretch your legs," Bodie says, with no less determination but a lot more kindness than me.

She finally agrees. She approaches the bed and leans over—I'm still lying flat—and kisses my forehead. I make no return gesture of affection but it recalls me to the fact that I can't exactly remember the last time she kissed me or I kissed her.

When your marriage is falling apart, and you are deciding if it can be salvaged, you don't take note of things like that. It's stop and start. Some days you want to forgive and you try, and some days you are mad as hell and you don't. But you never think...this is the last day I will kiss my wife. This is the last scrap of affection offered by one of us to the other, and tomorrow this part of us will be burned out forever.

All I know for sure is there were kisses in the spring of this year, after the affair. When we were still in marriage counseling. We made a brief attempt at restarting our sex life. It turned into mostly angry sex, so I shut it down. The last time her lips were on my skin, she was probably trying to offer herself, and I probably rejected her coldly.

Suddenly I feel guilt for the long year of cruelty. And this moment too, where she is trying to comfort me, and I'm not acknowledging that. This woman pressing her lips gently to my forehead is no longer my wife, who betrayed me. She's a person who by all rights does not have to be sleeping on a hard sofa, feeding me ice chips and pretending not to notice as nurses change my urine bag. As she moves away from the bed, I call to her.

"Row."

She turns, but it's hard to see Row through Stella. I close my eyes, remembering the gray-haired girl and the first time I kissed her, in a pool house on Martha's Vineyard. "Please take your time. I'll be fine."

"Okay. But...don't run off anywhere without me," she says with a shit-eating grin.

I find myself smiling at her with my eyes closes. "I might try, but there's simply nowhere to go. Hell is the last stop. We're already here."

"Nah. Hell is when you start your PT," Bodie assures me with a wink, folding his arm around Row, pulling her out the door quickly.

Marley has a satchel in her hands. She pulls a straight chair from the wall and sits beside my bed.

"Row has filled everyone in your injuries."

I grunt.

"You have to lie flat for now?" she asks neutrally.

"For the most part. I can sit up for twenty minutes every few hours or so, but I've just had my sitting allotment for the morning."

She nods easily, pulling a box from the satchel, taking a brand new Iphone from it and laying it beside my hand on the bed. "I got you a new phone. Yours was apparently cracked in the crash."

"Along with my back."

"Right," she says with a smile. She's going to do the counselor thing and let me make self-deprecating jokes without engaging in them. Hell, I take it back. I miss Row's darker humor already. "Anyway, I had to go a little Doc Gorgeous to get them to transfer your number without being an authorized user on your account, but I got it taken care of."

"Thanks very much," I hold up the phone. The number of voicemails and texts is staggering. Christ. "What's happening with our clients?" I wag my phone at her. "Is there something urgent?"

"No," she says. "I'm sure most of those are well-wishes. Everything is fine. Ariadne, your assistant and the intern are fielding things at the office. Marcy put out a press release about your accident but other than that she's not taking questions. At some point, we should have a conversation about covering your duties at the agency, however."

"By that I take it you mean now?"

"Only if you want it to be," she replies.

"You're on maternity leave for another four months."

"That was the plan," she says evenly. "But plans change."

"They shouldn't have to. Not for you."

"Riley, you hired me when I had no experience and no business doing this job. There is no way I'm turning my back on you in a time of need. Besides, Soundcrush is on hiatus," she reminds me. "Not much work for their road manager, really, but I can manage getting them to a gig here and there, if they accept one. I don't have a problem taking point on Harper and Sadie either, because they are also on hiatus, and their needs for representation should be minimal as well. Darius is a no-brainer, of course Bodie and I will manage the studio concerns for all his new album stuff, with your input. That will leave Ari with the troublemakers," she grins.

By troublemakers, she means Daze Gone, the punk outfit in our fold, who are in constant peril of being dumped by their label for being a bunch of difficult pricks. They are nothing in comparison to the giant headache that is DevBlu. Why I ever agreed to represent him, I can't remember.

Actually, I didn't agree to represent him.  We were partying in London with the girls, and he was arguing with his manager. The bloke was pushing him to remove his blue hair coloring and cover some of his tattoos for the Prince's Trust Concert.

I thought that was utterly ridiculous. Dev's an artist for Christ's sake. Blue hair and tattoos are part of his brand, even if he is the bastard son of a baron. It was more than enough that he'd already agreed to censor profanity from his performance in front of the royals. I made a daft, drunken remark that perhaps Lord Bluemond had bought his manager out from under him. Dev called his father and demanded satisfaction to his furious accusations.

Damned if I didn't turn out to be right.

Dev fired the bloke over text. Over the next bottle of gin, he insisted only I could represent him.

"You won't ever collude with my father behind my back. Aristocratic suggestion holds no sway over you whatsoever. Why you're practically a Yank now, anyway," he laughed. "You can't say no. We're mates."

I did say no. Repeatedly. But he put out a press release that I was his new manager and people began calling me about his interests.

He doesn't even bloody pay me.

"Marley will you call Dev? Tell him that unlike me, my people don't work for free. Tell him he has a choice. Sign a contract with my agency and accept Ari as his point person for the indeterminate future, or find other representation."

"Of course,"  she says. After a quiet moment, she adds. "Shall I call a lawyer for you as well?"

I sigh. "Do I need one?"

"I'm afraid so. The police are just waiting for your doctor to allow the interview."

"Go ahead and get Ziegler on retainer."

Ziegler is who we used when Daze Gone's guitarist got a DUI last year.

"Tell him I'll plead no contest, if the charge is a misdemeanor."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It's a first offense. I caused no one injury but myself. I would expect it to be a misdemeanor. That means probation, fines, suspension of license, one of those ignition devices. All of which I deserve."

She smiles. "Doesn't sound like you need a lawyer."

"Well, just in case I'm wrong about the charge. I'd prefer not to be charged with a felony and go to prison. What else?"

Marley pats my arm. "That's enough work for today, okay?"

After a long moment, I concede. "Alright then."

We sit in silence. Marley asks me if I need anything. I politely decline.

More silence.

"I wish the bloody doctor would come," I say in irritation.

"You wish the doctor would come while Row is not here," Marley observes. "You're concerned about your prognosis, and you don't want to deal with the added concern of her feelings about it."

She's right, of course. "Yes."

She leaves me to go to the nurses station in an effort to make it happen. And damned if she doesn't succeed. In ten minutes' time, she returns with a rather vigorous looking middle-aged man who introduces himself as Dr. Gregory. He's the neurosurgeon that performed my spinal surgery. Marley tries to step out, but I ask her to stay, explaining to the doctor that she's part of my team.

"Dr. Marley Watkins, our staff psychologist and Soundcrush's road manager."

He blinks. "Isn't that an odd mix of responsibilities?"

"Not at all," she assures him. "Think of me as a mother to rock stars. Except for the one I'm married to, of course."

"Ah, I see it now," he smiles at her, shaking his finger.

He turns to me. "Well that brings me to my first point with you, Mr. Emsworth. I know that being in talent management means you are used to being a mover and shaker, but for right now, I need you right where you are. On your back as much as possible." He begins an evaluation, marking me at various points of my arms, abdomen, legs and feet with a pinwheel device. The sensation is normal on my arms and trunk and somewhat reduced on my legs. I can hardly feel the pricks all in my feet, but I can feel the pressure.

"Still, I'm very encouraged" the doctor tells me. He begins to describe my injury, and the surgery.

I nod. "Can you cut to straight to the prognosis about my spinal cord injury, please?"

He nods. "I wish I could tell you. I can't give you definitive prognosis at this point. There is a good chance of restoring significant mobility, certainly. About 80% of people with your type of injury walk again. There is also a chance you may experience deficits, and need a walking device to aid in your mobility. I can tell you that your best shot is aggressive physical therapy, after your initial recovery but within the first six months of the injury. Most of the gains made in restoring motor function are made within that first six months. Where a patient finds themselves at the end of the first year with a spinal cord injury is typically where they will remain. But let me reiterate the good news. Your spinal cord is not severed, and I have seen many patients with injuries like yours make great strides, and sometimes even full recoveries."

"But you've also seen people with this kind of injury with...what did you say...deficits?"

"Yes," he agrees. "But outlook and determination play a huge factor in outcomes."

"Dr. Gregory, I am quite determined, in all aspects of my life, but I'm also a person that does not deal in bullshit."

"Fair enough," he says amiably. "I'll answer any questions you have."

"You keep saying deficits, but what you really mean is that there's a 20% chance I could be confined to a wheel chair the rest of my life."

"Yes," he says. "Particularly if you don't push hard in physical therapy."

"That's not going to happen. I'm going bloody crazy lying in bed for six days. There will be no one more motivated than me, I assure you."

"That's good to hear. It won't be easy, but it will be your only shot of reducing deficits in the motor function category."

I see how his lips tighten. I narrow my eyes. "What other categories of deficits are we talking about?"

"Energy deficits, probably. Mobility will never be quite as easy as it used to be, from a neurological standpoint. You may get tired more easily, especially until you get used to your new normal."

"Okay. That makes sense. What else?"

"It's not very likely, but some people with incomplete spinal cord injuries experience bladder and bowel control issues."

That's brilliant.

"The odds are vastly in your favor on those fronts, just like the walking. Now that you are awake, we can take the catheter out. We'll see how you manage."

"Yes, let's. What else?"

I know what's coming. It's obvious that he's saved the most delicate deficit for last.

"Your injury might effect sexual function," he says evenly. "Some men with this type of injury have perfectly normal function. Some report varying degrees of dysfunction."

"Forgive me, doctor, but I notice you didn't give me the odds-are-ever-in-my-favor speech," I say tersely.

"There is a lot that contributes to human sexuality. There is sensation and transmission of signal, of course, and that definitely plays a part. In the case of an incomplete spinal cord injury there are a number of other factors as well..." he looks to Marley for help. "Well, I'm sure Dr. Watkins can explain just as well as I can."

She gives him an eviscerating look, which I read as Coward.

She steps to the other side of my bed and looks down at me with her Marmley look. "I think what Dr. Gregory is trying to say is...it's difficult to give you a number in this case. It's not an exact science...separating physiological sexual dysfunction and psychological sexual dysfunction. Especially in a case where a patient who anticipates he could have  dysfunction then becomes anxious about his ability to perform sexually. It's a bit of a...Catch-22."

"Yes," Dr. Gregory. "Perfectly said. But of course, you have certain advantages to mitigate the psychological factors. Your wife seems highly invested and very dedicated to you—"

I laugh. I laugh so hard I can't breathe for the pain in my broken ribs.

The doctor is still trying to explain. "What I mean to say is...you're married. You're both young and attractive. A trusting, healthy sexual relationship, a compassionate spouse, good communication prior to the injury-can all help to alleviate psychological stress..."

I'm still laughing.

"I think he gets the point, Dr. Gregory," Marley cuts him off.

I choke off the laughter. "I'm sorry, Dr. Gregory. It's the irony, you see. My wife is not my wife. She's my ex-wife. I got rat-arsed on the day our divorce was final, and drove drunk. Ended up here. Guilt has glued her to my sickbed. Dedicated is not how I would describe her normal behavior. Hell, she's not even faithful—"

"Riley," Marley chides.

"He brought it up," I sneer at her, like a recalcitrant child. "I can't help it if my hot young wife is not really my wife, but a lying, cheating wh—"

"Riley!" Marley yells. My injuries do not prevent Marley from whacking me on the arm.

She's a whacker, that one.

"I'm sorry," she says to the doctor. "Obviously, this is difficult, and Riley is not himself."

I'm exactly myself. Or at least, who I've become in the last year.

"Yes, of course uhmmm..." Dr. Gregory looks at Marley, pleading for some kind of dismissal.

"Do you have any more questions for Dr. Gregory?"

I press the button on my hospital bed, rolling myself up to meet him. "Yes, when can I get the hell out of this bloody bed and start PT?"