— Here are the scans. I’m not asking for a miracle, I’m asking for your skill. Everyone knows you were framed. This is your chance to take back your life. And as a father, it’s my only hope.
Eleanor opened the folder. She saw the spinal compression, the scar tissue from a failed previous attempt. Her mind immediately began calculating angles of approach.
— Who did the first surgery? — she asked, her voice shifting into “Doctor mode.”
The conversation lasted an hour. The flight medic chimed in on the current vitals. Eleanor was no longer a woman hiding in the woods; she was a surgeon again.
— There’s a window of opportunity, — she said finally. — It’s narrow, but it’s there.
She looked around her small cabin. The chickens, the quiet, the simple life. But she felt the pull of the hospital, the weight of the scalpel, the chance to make things right.
— I’ll do it. But I need two weeks. I need to get my hands back in shape, and I need to make sure my neighbor Bill takes over my garden and the chickens.
Robert stood up, his eyes shining with relief:
— Anything you need. My driver will be here to pick you up whenever you’re ready.
