The phantom twitch, the "fasciculation," became the new center of Kyle's universe. It was a secret he and his body shared, a fragile, invisible thread tethering his conscious will to the silent continent below his waist. In the days that followed, the grim routine of the hospital was infused with a new, clandestine purpose. The world saw a patient lying inert. Inside, Kyle was a explorer, mapping the uncharted, ruined landscape of his own nervous system.
The plateau was still a vast, featureless plain, but he had found a single, shifting grain of sand. His entire existence narrowed to the two hours of physical therapy with Brenda. The rest of the day—the sponge baths, the silent meals through a feeding tube, the endless beeping of monitors—was merely the intermission. PT was the main event.
