Chapter 12 - Parallel Lines
The physical therapy wing was a vast, sunlit room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the rolling hills of upstate New York. Dust motes danced lazily in the slanting autumn light, illuminating the rows of exercise mats, weighted pulleys, and heavy chrome equipment that gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
At the far end of the room, between two polished wooden parallel bars, eighteen-year-old Junie was locked in a battle of wills with a tall, broad-shouldered therapist named Marcus. Junie’s face was flushed crimson, wet curls plastered to her forehead, her knuckles clamped so tightly onto the wooden rails that her skin had gone translucent.
"Come on, Junie. Just one more," Marcus encouraged, his voice pitched perfectly between professional authority and gentle coaching. "Your right foot is lagging. Bring the heel down flat before you shift your weight."
"I am trying," Junie hissed through gritted teeth, her whole frame trembling from the strain of supporting her own weight after months of atrophy. "Don't tell me how my foot works, Marcus."
Sloan paused just inside the doorway, her breath catching in her throat. She saw the familiar, stubborn tilt of her sister's chin—the exact same angle Sloan herself had used when standing up to Raphael Moretti across a mahogany desk littered with unpayable debts. For a second, the sterile rehabilitation gym melted away, replaced by the ghost of every hard choice Sloan had made in the shadows of the Moretti estate. Every late-night inventory check, every hidden stack of cash, every calculated risk had led to this exact moment.
"Four," Junie muttered, dragging her right foot forward with a agonizing, shuddering lunge that made her knees buckle slightly. "That's four... I can't do five."
"Yes, you can," Sloan said, her voice cutting through the hum of the ventilation system like a silver blade.
Junie froze, her head snapping up toward the doorway, her eyes widening in disbelief. "Sloan? What are you—you're supposed to be working. If the Morettis catch you skipping a shift—"
"The Morettis can manage without me for a few days," Sloan interrupted, walking across the polished floor with long, steady strides. She unslung her canvas bag and dropped it near the base of the parallel bars, her eyes locked entirely on her sister. "And for the record, your shift is four steps. You promised me six."
Marcus stepped back with a knowing, relieved grin, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Thank goodness you're here, Sloan. She’s been threatening to fire me for the last twenty minutes."
"I never made it past four," Junie argued, though a watery, triumphant smile was already breaking through the exhaustion on her face. "My legs feel like lead, Sloan. You try carrying around thirty pounds of dead weight for a year."
"I know," Sloan said softly, reaching out to steady her sister’s waist as Junie’s knees wobbled dangerously. "I carried it for both of us. Now take a breath, reset your grip, and show me number five."
Junie closed her eyes, drew in a ragged, shuddering breath of air, and gripped the wooden rails until her knuckles popped. With a low, fierce growl that echoed off the high gymnasium ceiling, she threw her right foot forward, planting her heel square and true against the scuffed floorboards.
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"Five," Junie whispered, tears of pure exertion spilling over her lower lashes.
"One more," Sloan urged, her hands resting firmly, steadily against Junie's lower back, providing just enough anchor to keep the world from spinning away. "Just one more, Junie. Build the bridge."
