Lo walks around the table with my crutches, edging towards me until his chest is about an inch from mine. And he says lowly, “You don’t take oxycodone for emotional pain. You’re stronger than this.” I grip the top of the chair, helping me balance as his words barrel through me. “Maybe I’m not,” I say beneath my breath. His jaw sharpens. “You are, and I’ll tell you what else is happening. I called your physical therapist, who said you wanted to push back PT for another four months. Don’t worry, I fixed that little mix-up with him. You’re starting PT tomorrow, bright and early. Like you like
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