Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Verdict
At 7:00 PM, Dr. Jonathan Harris, Chief of Neurology at Mass General, hurried into Caleb’s private medical wing inside the mansion. He carried two aluminum cases filled with advanced nerve-conduction testing equipment.
Dr. Harris had been Caleb’s primary physician for eight years. He was a brilliant, silver-haired specialist who had accepted millions of dollars in research grants from the Marino Foundation.
"Caleb, Vance told me on the phone," Dr. Harris said, setting his cases on the stainless-steel table, his voice laced with deep skepticism. "Look, nerve phantom sensations are common in severe spinal trauma. Sometimes the brain projects signals—"
"Stop talking and attach the electrodes," Caleb commanded, lifting his trouser legs.
Dr. Harris sighed, shaking his head gently as he attached small silver pads to Caleb’s lower back, thighs, and ankles, wiring them to a high-definition monitor.
"We ran these tests six months ago, Caleb," Harris reminded him softly. "The lower lumbar region showed absolute flatline activity. The scar tissue surrounding the L3 vertebra is complete."
"Turn the machine on," Caleb said.
Dr. Harris flipped the toggle switch. The monitor hummed to life, displaying a flat blue line representing nerve conductivity across Caleb’s lower limbs.
"Now," Harris said, picking up a small metal stylus. "I am going to send a low-voltage electrical impulse to the sciatic nerve. If there is no response, the line will stay flat."
Harris pressed the stylus against Caleb’s right knee.
BEEP.
The monitor’s flat line violently spiked into a jagged green peak.
Dr. Harris stumbled backward, nearly knocking over his equipment trolley. "What in God's name...?"
"Do it again," Caleb demanded, his eyes locked on the screen.
Harris, his hands visibly shaking, pressed the stylus against Caleb’s right ankle.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The green lines surged across the monitor screen, dancing wildly, indicating high-frequency electrical signals firing from the brain straight through the spinal column into the foot.
"This... this is scientifically impossible," Dr. Harris stammered, adjusting his glasses, staring at the readouts in pure disbelief. "The scar tissue... it's deteriorating. The neural path isn't severed—it was compressed! Encapsulated by a deep hematoma that has somehow begun to dissolve!"
"How?" Caleb asked, his voice sharp as a razor.
"I don't know!" Harris yelled, clutching his medical folder. "Trauma hematomas don't just dissolve after eight years! It would require a sudden, massive release of natural endorphins and adrenaline combined with a localized vascular shift—something that normally only happens during extreme emotional shocks!"
Caleb closed his eyes.
He remembered the sound of the laugh. He remembered the feeling of warmth flooding his frozen chest when that little girl danced on the marble floor. The laughter hadn't just been a sound; it had been an emotional lightning strike that had broken an eight-year paralysis inside his brain.
"Can I walk again, Harris?" Caleb asked, opening his eyes.
Dr. Harris stared at the jagged green lines spiking across the monitor screen.
"With intensive, aggressive physical therapy, extreme pain management, and specialized nerve retraining..." Harris took a deep breath, looking into Caleb’s eyes. "Yes. Within six to nine months, you could stand. Within a year... you could walk."
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"I don't have a year," Caleb said, sliding off the examination table, using his massive upper body strength to support himself against the parallel bars in his private gym. "I give you ninety days, Harris. If you need equipment, buy it. If you need specialists from Europe, fly them here on my private jet. But no one outside this room knows about this. If a single word leaks to the press or the medical board, I will destroy your career."
Dr. Harris swallowed hard, nodding repeatedly. "Understood, Caleb. Absolute secrecy."
