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""The left knee of Owen Brooks's exoskeleton locked so violently that his sneaker left the floor before the rest of him began to fall.
I caught him under the arms, but his chin still struck my shoulder hard enough to make my teeth click together.
"Don't move," I said.
"I wasn't trying to."
His voice came out thin and embarrassed, which bothered me more than if he had cried.
The StrideCore X9 made a soft electronic chirp against his leg, almost cheerful.
Owen stared down at the machine.
"It did it again."
"I know."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
I said it before anyone else in the room had a chance to answer.
At nine years old, Owen had already learned the dangerous habit of assuming that when an adult's expensive plan failed, the child must somehow have failed with it.
I kept one arm around his chest while I reached for the emergency release at his left thigh.
The powered joint resisted for half a second, then disengaged with a metallic clack.
His leg sagged against mine.
"Okay," I said.
"Chair first."
The rehabilitation room had once been the Brooks family's dining room, and evidence of that earlier life remained in the chandelier Nathan had refused to remove and the faint rectangular discoloration where a china cabinet had stood.
Now there were parallel bars bolted into the hardwood, foam pads stacked against one wall, resistance bands hanging from hooks, and nearly four hundred thousand dollars of polished carbon fiber strapped to a frightened boy.
I got Owen into his wheelchair and crouched in front of him.
"Toes."
He wiggled them.
"Again."
"They didn't get more interesting since the first time."
That was better.
Sarcasm meant he was recovering from the scare.
I checked the color and temperature of his foot, then worked upward, asking what he could feel.
His sensation was imperfect below the injury, but it was consistent with his baseline.
Behind me, someone moved quickly through the hallway.
Nathan Brooks appeared in the doorway wearing Navy workout clothes and one untied running shoe.
"What happened?"
"The left actuator locked under load."
His gaze went first to Owen, then to the machine, then back to me.
"Did he fall?"
"No."
"Almost," Owen said.
Nathan crossed the room and put a hand on his son's shoulder.
The gesture looked practiced and uncertain at the same time.
Six months after the crash, there were still moments when he seemed to approach Owen as if fatherhood had become a piece of equipment whose instructions had been lost.
"Are you hurt?"
Owen shook his head.
Nathan looked at me.
"StrideCore said the last shutdown was calibration."
"They were wrong."
He pressed his lips together.
"You sure?"
It irritated me that he asked.
It irritated me more because I understood why.
Nathan had spent months being given probabilities by trauma surgeons, neurologists, rehabilitation specialists, insurance representatives, lawyers, and equipment vendors.
Everybody sounded certain until the next person entered the room.
"I'm sure about what happened in front of me," I said.
"The joint locked while he was bearing weight."
"Could his alignment have been off?"
"No."
"You checked?"
"Yes, Nathan."
He heard my impatience.
So did Owen.
I hated myself a little for that.
Nathan rubbed the back of his neck.
"Okay."
Owen picked at the edge of the Velcro strap across his right thigh.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to wear it anymore."
Nathan's hand stopped moving.
For several seconds, the only sound was the small cooling fan inside the exoskeleton.
The machine had been presented to Owen as freedom.
That word had appeared everywhere during the sales process.
Freedom in the demonstration videos.
Freedom in the rehabilitation plan.
Freedom in the conversations Nathan had with his son when neither of them was ready to talk about what the doctors actually knew.
Owen had once told me he wanted to walk into school wearing the X9 because he thought everybody would think he looked like Iron Man.
Now he wouldn't look at it.
"We don't have to decide anything right this second," Nathan said.
"I decided."
"Buddy—"
"I don't want it."
Nathan glanced at me, asking for help without saying so.
I didn't give it.
This wasn't a motivation problem.
The doorbell rang.
Nathan frowned toward the hallway.
"You're expecting somebody?"
"No."
The bell rang again, followed almost immediately by the sound of the front door opening.
Nathan straightened.
"What the hell?"
A man's voice carried through the foyer.
"Admiral Brooks?"
Nathan walked out of the rehabilitation room.
I stayed with Owen until I heard Nathan say, "Who let you in?"
Then I followed.
Three men stood inside the foyer.
The one in front wore a charcoal suit that looked too expensive for a Wednesday morning house call.
The other two carried hard equipment cases with StrideCore Medical logos.
The man in the suit extended his hand.
"Victor Lang."
Nathan didn't take it.
Victor let his hand fall without appearing embarrassed.
"CEO of StrideCore Medical."
"I know who you are."
"Good."
"That wasn't an invitation to walk into my house."
Victor looked over his shoulder.
"The door was open."
"It wasn't."
One of the technicians suddenly became interested in the zipper on his equipment case.
Victor's expression changed by less than an inch.
"My apologies."
He had the polished calm of someone who had spent years learning that the person who displayed the least emotion in a room could often decide what everyone else's emotion meant.
"We received an automated fault notification from Owen's unit," he said.
"Given the history here, I decided to come personally."
"You got here fast," I said.
His eyes moved to me.
"And you are?"
"Lauren Hayes."
Recognition appeared.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
That registered with me.
"The home rehabilitation nurse," he said.
"That's right."
"I've read your reports."
"Then you know the actuator has locked four times."
"Your reports describe four mobility interruptions."
"They describe lockups."
"Terminology matters."
May you like
"So does a nine-year-old hitting the floor."
Owen had rolled into the hallway behind me.
