Abel moved into the guest room downstairs while he recovered. The doctor was against him stressing himself, and climbing stairs would be fatal to his health since he was still very much fragile. I moved into the room with him and slept beside him, taking extreme care not to touch the still-tender spot the bullet had ripped into. I knew he still felt pain, but insisted on less and less medication, saying he could wing it. After a day of being home, he could walk to the bathroom and house entrance on his own, although it wore him out.
"This is sickening," he complained a week later after one of his visits to the bathroom. I looked up at him from where I was sitting on the bed. "I hate being weak. That's not the Stravkos way."
He lay back down and I helped him tuck the blanket up to his waist. "Stop whining. You're getting stronger every day. I can feel it."
"Well I can't feel anything but my weak bones and side. I'm not healing fast enough."
