I pressed. “You made me capable of walking again the only way you could. It had nothing to do with me. That’s what you’re saying, right?” He stared at me, and I had the feeling our conversation had taken a wrong turn somewhere, that it could have gone a completely different way, but I couldn’t think of how it might have or where it had strayed. He brought his head down, completing the nod. “Right.” “Then we’re on the same page. Same paragraph, same sentence,” I snapped. “Same bloody word,” he agreed flatly. I felt like crying and hated myself for it. Why couldn’t he have said something nice?
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