Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“That’s all I ask.”
“Fine. But Ambrose, if you’re not at my apartment in an hour, I’m sending the police here.”
“I’ll text you so you have my new number. And I’ll be there. I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
—Emily Dickinson
Seventeen Years Ago
Patient Number 0022
“Ambrose,” Dr. Sweeton said, taking Ambrose’s hand in both of his and squeezing. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel pretty good. Sore.”
The doctor smiled. “Good sore?”
Ambrose let out a chuckle. He knew what the doctor meant. There was the sore that came from not eating and not sleeping, and filling your body with chemicals. And there was the sore that meant you were moving your muscles in the way they were meant to be moved. “Yeah,” he said. “Good sore.”
“You like the boxing? That’s your thing?”
He smiled. “Very much.” He did like boxing. He liked the smack of his fist on the bag, that steady thump, thump, thump that almost reminded him of the drumbeat that had been part of his therapy. But he also loved the way it grounded him and made him feel strong and in control of his body, when he’d never, ever had that before. His body had been controlled—abused—by others, and then by the drugs and alcohol. And now it was his. The therapy had given him that, and now boxing added to it and brought it to another level.
And after he’d worked his body to its limits and eaten a good meal, he slept, and he woke up refreshed, with a clarity of mind that he hadn’t even known existed. It was like he’d been reborn. And though he’d lived in the world for twenty-one years, everything was new, because he was new and experiencing it with a completely different vision.
“I like the hair too,” Dr. Sweeton said. “Much better.”
Ambrose chuckled as he ran a hand over his crew cut. It was shorter than he liked, but he’d wanted to get rid of the bleached sections that reminded him of his old self. He’d let that prostitute named Maria who’d first called him Jett bleach his hair because she said she needed to practice if she was going to take her cosmetology exam. He hadn’t cared about his hair and hadn’t had anything better to do at the time, so he’d let her do what she’d asked. It’d looked awful and kind of freakish, but he hadn’t really cared about that, either, because it was a reflection of how he felt.
“You have an appointment for aftercare with Finch tomorrow.”
“Finch.” He knew that name. “He works at the youth center on Golden Gate? I’ve met him before.”
“Yes, Finch remembers you, even though you were a different person then. He’s expecting the new Ambrose.”
The new Ambrose. The one he was still becoming acquainted with, even though it’d only been a couple of weeks since he’d completed the therapy that was so much more than therapy. Therapy. That word didn’t even touch what he’d experienced. A reawakening? A complete reboot? So many times during the day, he found himself expecting that lightning-jolt of electricity that used to shoot through his body in response to any unexpected emotion. And when it didn’t come, when there were only manageable bodily sensations, he wanted to weep with relief. A few times he had. “What kind of aftercare are we talking about?”
“The boxing is part of it. Finch suggested that. Not just boxing, but anything physical. Others choose yoga, which can be very helpful too.”
Others. He’d forgotten there were others that had gone through this. Twenty-one of them, in fact. He was patient number twenty-two. He’d met a few, of course, but he suddenly had this deep desire to know them all, each one. To hear about their experiences, to bond, especially with those who’d gone through it years earlier than he had. He wanted the confirmation that this would last, that it wasn’t just a temporary dream and he’d awaken one morning to find himself thrashing and screaming in some doorway on a trash-strewn street.
“Specific physical activities will assist you in connecting to your body even further, to ensure that you trust it. Finch is the expert on that front, and I leave the aftercare to him. He’ll likely take you to Muir Woods.”
Ambrose scrunched his brow. “Muir Woods?”
The doctor smiled and shrugged. “Finch swears the redwood trees provide healing. Anyway, he’ll get you set up in a room and help you find a job, find a life.”
A life. That both scared him and sent a spiral of joy spinning through his system, the first “spiral” of anything physical that produced an enjoyable sensation. It made him feel excited and hopeful. He was capable of living a life, a real one. He felt like a human for the first time, not just a waste of space.