He still couldn't throw a full punch without his side pulling. Still had to sit down after too many stairs, still felt it when he pushed further than he should. But he could stand at the window of his Brooklyn office without gripping the frame for balance, and today that felt like enough of a victory to notice.
"You're doing the thing," Luca said from the couch, not looking up from his laptop.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stand there looking pleased with yourself because your body finally stopped betraying you."
"I'm allowed a moment."
"You've had about eleven moments this week."
Dante turned from the window, and even that felt easier than it had a month ago, no sharp intake of breath, no careful recalibration. "You'd be insufferable too if you spent three weeks being carried around like a piece of furniture."
