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back to therapy.”
    “No,” he says, and I get the feeling that he’s not going to budge.
    “Why not? It can only help you. What are you afraid of?”
    “I’m not afraid of anything. I just don’t want to do it. I’ll figure it out on my own.”
    “That’s stupid.” His brow furrows at my audacity. “What? I’m serious. They have methods that could enhance your day to day life. You wouldn’t have to struggle as much.”
    He scoffs, as if that’s not possible.
    “I’m a smart man; I’ll do it on my own.”
    He’s so damned stubborn. I’m aggravated at the notion that he won’t take help from anyone. I wish I knew more about the types of things a therapist could teach him. Then, maybe, I could guide him, until he’s more comfortable with it. What the hell is he so afraid of?
    “And, will you build yourself a new set of prosthetic legs too?” I cross my arms in a defiant stance. I’m irritated.
    He glares at me.
    “I don’t need plastic and metal holding me up in some vain attempt to make me appear normal. And, don’t stand there lecturing me about what I should and shouldn’t be doing. You have legs. You can walk and run, if you want to. You can jump and for God’s sake, you can walk up those stairs right there!” He points toward the living room. “I can do none of that. So, no, nothing you say, nor anything a therapist can do for me, would bring my legs back, which is the only thing that could give me back my life. Until you lose a limb or two, you have no right to say a fucking word!”
    His face is red from his angry outburst, and I feel terrible. He’s right. I don’t understand, and I probably never will, but he’s wrong too. His life can get better. He does have the chance to walk and run again. He could most definitely walk up a flight of stairs, and do everything anyone else with their natural legs can do. He just has to believe it’s possible and put in the work. I bow my head in defeat, and I don’t stop him from leaving the room. He needs space, and so do I.
    While sitting alone in the kitchen, self-doubt about my care giving capabilities creeps in again, and I wonder if I’m the best home health care worker for this man. I’m agitating him more than I’m helping him. Maybe, I should cut my losses and get out before I get too attached to him. But, deep down, I realize I already am. I know the man from the picture is still inside him somewhere. I have yet to meet him, but he has to exist. I feel like maybe, just maybe, if I can get him to see how his life can improve, I might coax out the old Logan. I’ve got to try, and I know what I have to do.

    Lunch time comes and goes, and Logan refuses to come out of his room. I knock several times, announcing that his lunch is ready, but he says he’s not hungry. I wrap up the sandwich and place it in the fridge. Then, I occupy my time with menial tasks, such as laundry and dusting, but still, Logan stays hidden. It’s nearly five o’clock, and I’ve just finished dinner. Placing it in the oven to keep it warm, I walk toward his room. Tentatively, I raise my fist and knock gently.
    “Logan? It’s time for me to go. Do you need anything?”
    I wait anxiously for his reply.
    “No,” is all he says.
    A strange urgency fills me, and I realize I need him to say more than that. I don’t want to leave it like this, so I try again.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.” His tone is clipped.
    My heart sinks. Is he that upset with me? Did I go too far this time? I feel tears start to well up, but I dash them away quickly.
    “Okay then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    Knowing that he’s not about to open the door, I let the floodgates open. Although I don’t make a sound, my tears run down my face and onto my scrub top. I wipe them again, and walk away.
    “Elora?”
    I turn to see Logan’s face. It’s riddled with concern. I’m suddenly embarrassed to be crying over something so stupid, but I can’t seem to stop them. I can see the