"Well, Vance, you have remarkable recovery progress from the burns. You're x-rays indicate substantial progress on your fractures. Frankly, this is near superhuman. I still want to observe you for one more night, but you might be able to head home Sunday! Congratulations, Vance," Doctor Walters explained, his voice carrying a mixture of astonishment and professional pride.
"Seriously, doc?" I exhaled, a wave of profound relief sweeping over me as I processed his words. "Thank you for your care! It means more than I can say."
"You may want to be examined for any extraordinary potential," he continued, a slight twinkle in his eye suggesting he was only half-joking. "You might have a mild super-recovery capability."
"Okay, I might look into it, but does this mean I can go into work Monday?" I asked, half in jest, eager to return to some semblance of normalcy.
"Go into work? You'd be fit for a marathon at this pace," Doctor Walters chuckled. "Just get some rest. I am going to keep you lathered up in aloe in the meantime, and we will be cutting the morphine in favor of acetaminophen."
The night came and went. Saturday was nothing more than a blur of mediocre hospital food, several examinations and tests, and old westerns playing on the hospital TV. By Sunday, Walters signed my discharge papers and I left to hail a cab.
"New town please, 8th and Canal," I instructed the driver.
"The Branstone?" the cabbie queried.
"Yes, that's the one," I confirmed as we approached the familiar facade of the small skyscraper. The building was an elegant throwback, built in the old style with red bricks and Victorian embellishments. The attendant opened the door for me with a nod and a smile.
"Nicky, good to see you!" I greeted him warmly.
"You as well, Mister Vance. Haven't seen you this week, must have found a new job," he said, his tone light and teasing.
"Yes, but I actually was caught in the Misconductor attack. The doctors said it was serious at first; nevertheless, I am back on my feet," I explained briefly, not wanting to delve into the painful details.
"Sorry 'bout that," Nicky replied sympathetically. "But glad to see you in good health! Enjoy your day, sir."
"Same to you," I returned the sentiment and entered the elevator, pressing for the 12th floor. A jazz single played softly as I ascended to my apartment. Upon entering, I was greeted by the familiar sight of marble floors, stainless appliances, and a modern aesthetic—all exactly as I had left them. I changed out of my tattered suit into a shirt and shorts and set about cooking an actual meal for myself, reveling in the normalcy of it.
Afterwards, feeling restless and invigorated, I headed down the block to start my Sunday set at the local gym. I slowly increased the load on the barbell. Last week, 255 pounds was my max, but today my arms felt like they had strength to spare. Upping the ante, I slid on 20 more pounds... then 40 more... and 80 more. Today, I shattered my personal best; the bar racked an astonishing 520 pounds. My workout ended, not because I had reached my new weight limit, but out of sheer fatigue from lifting weights for over an hour.
Following a power nap, a surge of curiosity overtook me. I returned to the gym and racked up a buffalo barbell to 600—no problem. 700? Easy. 800! 900! 1,000! My arms buzzed with exhaustion after 20 reps. The gym did not have bars that could accommodate more weight, and I wished not to damage the owner's equipment. Switching exercises, I continued to shock myself with the results of each new test. I was undeniably strong.
Next, I tested my stamina. The inclined treadmill whined under the strain as it approached top speed. While I could now maintain a running pace of 10 mph, my speed had not seen a significant increase. After shutting the machine down, the clock confirmed that my stamina, while improved, had not skyrocketed in the same way my strength had.
That night, I slept deeply, the events of the day a vivid testament to my unexpected recovery and newfound abilities.