That first night, I helped Garrett through his bedtime routine and his physical therapy exercises, and as I settled a warm towel over his lower legs, I saw his right foot move.

Not a twitch.

Not the involuntary jump of a nerve misfiring.

A deliberate flex — a foot doing what a foot is told.

He caught me seeing it, and his eyes came up to mine, sharp and focused.

“Denise,” he said, very low.

“Lock the door.”

I stepped back toward it, my hand finding my phone in my pocket on the way.