Chapter Last Updated: July 1, 2026
Amanda had long since given up trying to make him the same kind of elaborate breakfasts she’d served to her children, but she still often made something more for herself than his standard brioche and coffee. Today, she’d added a grilled tomato and mushrooms. He had to admit that it looked interesting, if a bit offbeat for breakfast.
She saw him looking. “It’s something they apparently do here. When in Rome…”
He chuckled thoughtfully. “Something like that might get me to try an English breakfast. A small one.”
“Well, I made enough for two, if the portions are small. Do you want to try?”
“Not today,” he told her. “But next time, maybe, make enough for me too.”
Her smile was nothing less than brilliant. “We’ll get you eating a good breakfast soon, won’t we?”
“That,” he told her, “probably won’t happen in this lifetime. But, like you said, when in Rome…” he trailed off meaningfully.
“You and I both know what a full English breakfast looks like,” she countered, still smiling.
“And both of us know that’s not likely to ever happen here. For either of us.” He shuddered a little more theatrically than he was feeling. “They eat fish. And toast with beans. First thing in the morning.”
She shrugged and poured more coffee. “You like both. Especially a lot of beans in your chili.”
“Yes, but I don’t eat chili for breakfast. And mine always tastes better than yours.”
The callback to one of their first cases elicited another smile. Truth be told, there wasn’t even a close comparison between her hearty chili and the thin, too-heavily-spiced concoction they’d been served at Bo Johnson’s ranch, but he needed to retain some tactical advantages. Which was why he’d never admitted that he liked hers better, even though he was pretty sure she already knew it anyway. There always seemed to be an extra helping available for him when she made it.
Amanda didn’t even seem to be thinking about that though. “Remember Carmen Ortega’s chili? She gave me the recipe before we left. Though I’m not sure I’ll ever be comfortable putting fresh jalapeños in. Especially not that much.”
“Assuming you can find them,” he replied without thinking.
Her eyes focused on her plate. “Yeah. Assuming I can find them.”
Damn it, he thought. And they’d had such a good banter going, too. What on earth had possessed him to say something like that anyway?
“Carmen,” he said, trying to recover, “is something of a saint anyway. Though I’d still put your chili ahead of hers.” He held up a hand. “But if you want to try her recipe, especially once Jamie’s here —”
She laughed gently, though there was still some tightness around her eyes. “We’ll see. And she’s definitely a saint. I thought I was doing pretty well back in Arlington, but five kids? With another one coming soon?” Amanda shook her head. “Not to mention she’d told me there was at least one miscarriage in between.”
“Zeke really loves her,” he answered with a mock leer.
“And she adores him. You can see it every time she looks at him.” Having finished her breakfast, she stood, took her dishes to the kitchen, and then came back for his. He started to protest, but bit it back. Soon enough. You’ll be helping her in the kitchen soon enough.
Still, he made a point of getting up and making his way over to the kitchen to keep the conversation going, musing that he’d have laughed at even the idea of helping her in a kitchen less than five years ago. She had run the dishwater hot, and his glasses fogged up as he came to stand beside her.
“I’ll be done in a few minutes,” she murmured.
Slipping out of one crutch, he leaned it against the counter and took off the glasses, taking the opportunity to lean forward so he could kiss her shoulder. “I know.”
“There’s a cleaning cloth on that hook by the water closet.”
“I know that too.” But for simple steam, he didn’t mind using the pocket square in his jacket. “I just wanted to be next to you.”
Now the corner of her mouth quirked. “You didn’t get enough of that last night?”
“I can never,” he said, punctuating his sentence with more shoulder kisses, “get enough of you.”
“Keep that up and I’ll draft you for drying duty, crutches or no crutches.”
Lee sighed. He’d hoped to at least be able to stand without needing any help by now, and he theoretically could, but he was too wobbly to be of much use.
Amanda began draining the dishwater. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. And your first appointment’s at three, so we’ll get there.”
“Yeah,” he told her. “I will.”
Such a short statement, he thought, but it carried so much meaning. It’d been just over four months since the accident. Which was about five months too long to have been stuck using crutches. There had been a few positives — Amanda couldn’t seem to get over her fascination with the new muscle definition in his arms and chest, and had lavished both with kisses just last night — but he’d trade every one of them for the ability to just stand beside her and dry dishes while she washed.
He hadn’t even realized she’d left the kitchen until she came back again, hefting his backpack and her tote. Trying not to let his irritation show, he took the pack from her and slipped it over his shoulders. He’d need both arms, and both crutches, to safely get down the stairs inside their front door.
It was remarkably pleasant outside for a July morning, and there hadn’t been any dew on the sometimes-slippery external steps. A small blessing, yes, but on a day like today he’d take what he could get. With the uproar over Iran Air 655, he was going to have to double-time in the office if he wanted to leave room for that three o’clock appointment.
Amanda had just closed the front garden gate when they heard a female voice calling. “Hello! You’re new here.”
Lee’s first thought was we don’t have time for this, but Amanda had already stopped and turned back toward their building. “Hello?”
A young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties with dark, curly hair, hurried out the front door and down the steps. She held out a hand. “I shan’t keep you long. We saw you a few days ago but haven’t had a chance to pop in yet. I’m Clare. Clare Davenport. We live in the C unit, just underneath yours.”
“Amanda Stetson,” said Amanda as she shook. “This is my husband Lee.”
“Americans!” Clare seemed excited. “How enchanting! Are you here with your government?”
They exchanged a glance before Lee nodded slowly.
“I’d wondered if or when that would happen given that Embassy flat underneath us. But I had expected more Austrians, not Americans.” Clare laughed again. “My husband will be so upset. He was looking forward to practicing his German with you.” She paused. “And we work together as well. As teachers, you see. At Pimlico School. He’s in languages. I teach maths.”
“That’s nice,” said Amanda. Her tone was warm, but Lee could hear some underlying tension.
“Have you any children?” asked Clare. “I’ve not seen any, but it’s unusual for a couple to take a two-level maisonette. Unless there’s some other reason, but…” she trailed off, indicating Lee’s crutches. “I’d have thought you’d focused on a first-floor flat.”
Lee felt his spine stiffen, and it was an effort to keep his answer from becoming a snap. “This is temporary. In fact, I’m starting rehab today so I should be walking again soon.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Clare’s hands flew to her mouth. “That’s me, though, always running off at the mouth before I think it through.”
“And yes,” said Amanda. “Our son Jamie is coming in later tonight.”
Clare’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful! Will he be attending Pimlico?”
“No,” said Amanda. “We’ve enrolled him at Wilton Street School. It was recommended to us.”
That earned them a pause. “You have? Oh, well. You can’t win them all, and we’re still available if he needs tutoring. The last couple in there before you — their children were teenagers, y’see, and didn’t want to give us the time of day. How old is your Jamie?”
Amanda’s lips quirked. “Thirteen. And he’s every bit a teenager.”
“Oh, thirteen is still a wonderful age, that. The other couple’s children? Sixteen and eighteen, or something along those lines. At Pimlico, but teenagers all the same.” She shook her head. “They weren’t here very long.”
“Jamie’s not like that,” said Lee, focusing on the warmth that had begun spreading in his chest the moment Amanda had referred to Jamie as “our son.” It was an effective counter to the resentment he was feeling at being held up. “He’s pretty smart, and mostly mature for his age.”
“Mostly? Then that’s even better.” Clare clapped her hands together again. “But I said I shan’t hold you up. Perhaps we could come by some other time, after tea? Or you’d be welcome to come downstairs and meet Rhys. That’s my husband.” She paused. “Three years, next month, but we’ve only just now discussed children. After all, teachers’ salaries aren’t the best, and Rhys is already applying to do a master’s degree. And there I go, running on again when you needs be off. I’m looking forward to meeting your Jamie when he’s here!”
Lee shook his head as they began walking toward the Tube station. “Was that a teacher or a force of nature?”
“She seemed very nice,” observed Amanda. “I believe that means we’ve met all our neighbors now, between them and Mrs. Mercer in the terrace flat.”
“Mrs. Mercer?” asked Lee. “I didn’t know you’d met her.” He hadn’t even known her name until just now.
“Oh, yes. That was the night you crashed out so soon after dinner. We ran into each other while I was taking the trash out.” They passed through the turnstiles and into the station proper, heading for one of the lifts. “She had me in for a late tea. Such a nice woman.”
“I see,” said Lee, and he felt the warmth spreading even more. It was so very like Amanda to have met the neighbors within three weeks of moving in.
“And did you know,” asked Amanda thoughtfully, “that school is still in session here? Which is really strange, but I suppose that’s how they do it. Maybe we should have Mr. and Mrs. Davenport up sometime over the weekend, so they can explain all that to Jamie. How their school years work, I mean. And I’m still not quite sure of the difference between a ‘form’ and a ‘year’ myself.”
Lee chuckled again, realizing his earlier irritation and worry had faded. They still had a long day ahead, but now, he was actually starting to look forward to it.
This was definitely not the way he’d been looking forward to things going. He’d been elated and relieved when Kamran Hassan appeared with the prosthetic foot; it looked for all the world like a bare foot made from silicone, complete with individual toes and an opening that was somewhat smaller than a traditional shoe. When asked to put it on, Lee had been even more excited; he’d managed it on the second try, with only minimal coaching needed.
Then the prosthetist had asked him to stand up.
He’d promptly staggered sideways.
Hassan, apparently, had anticipated this, since he was right there to catch him. “Steady there. Use the walking frame to keep your balance.”
Blowing his breath out hard, Lee complied, and after a second of shifting his weight around was able to stand up straight. “What’d I do wrong?”
“Nothing at all. You’ve been compensating for months and it’s become a habit. There’s going to be an adjustment period.”
He vaguely remembered Monica Brown saying something similar back in Washington.
Lee tried letting go of the walker. He was able to keep his balance this time, but he didn’t feel steady at all. “How long of one?”
“Your providers back in the States thought it would likely be a matter of weeks.” Hassan’s eyes flicked over him, appraising. “I do believe they’re right. Most people don’t try to let go of the walking frame that quickly. Even fewer succeed.”
He couldn’t keep the grin from coming out.
“Perhaps try taking a step. A small one. With the frame, if you please, Mr. Stetson.”
Although he gave the idea a dark look, Lee complied, wrapping one hand around the walker’s frame before gingerly picking up his left foot and moving it forward. It was a good thing he had followed instructions; he immediately found himself catching his weight on the equipment. “What the —”
“You’ll remember that there’s an adjustment period. Can you go back to standing?”
He took a deep breath, but was able to do that. And to drop his hand off the walker again.
“Now try stepping forward with the prosthetic foot. Use the walking frame, Mr. Stetson. You’ve already seen why.”
Picking up the foot was easy enough, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to put it down, even when he actually looked down at it. Wasn’t he supposed to feel something when he took a step?
“Don’t look at the floor,” said Hassan. “Just step ahead.”
“I —” Lee felt his lips thin. “I can’t tell where the foot is.”
“That’s normal. Walking is going to feel different than it used to. You’ll learn how to adjust.”
“But my heel’s still there,” he argued. “Shouldn’t I be able to feel something?”
“Are you so sure you aren’t? Try putting your weight on the foot.”
Surprisingly, he was able to, though it felt too unsteady to risk letting go of the walker. “It was already on the floor?”
“It was,” answered the prosthetist. “You did that part automatically. You just didn’t trust the sensation enough to acknowledge it. That’s going to be part of your adjustment.” He paused. “Your progress notes indicate you ran for exercise prior to the injury. Correct?”
“Yes.” Lee decided he didn’t want to risk asking how long it would be before he could do that again.
“You’ve a runner’s instincts for shifting your weight,” said Hassan. “Those haven’t gone away in four months, and they’ll help you now. Will you try two steps this time? One off of each foot, in sequence?”
The step off his normal foot was, well, normal. But he couldn’t even manage to get the prosthetic off the ground.
“That’s your runner’s instinct again. You’re trying to push off. But you’ve no arch. Nothing to push off with.”
Lee brought himself back to a stand. “Can I just — I don’t know. Learn how to pull it up instead?”
“That’ll be between you and your physio,” said Hassan. He squatted down. “I’d like you try that one more time, please.”
The results were the same: stepping off the left foot normally followed by a near-complete stop when his right foot simply didn’t behave correctly. Even worse, when Lee looked down, Hassan was frowning.
“What is it? Did I do something wrong, or…?”
Straightening back up, the prosthetist shook his head. “No, you did things exactly as expected, Mr. Stetson. But your heel isn’t coming completely into contact with the ground. This might not be the best approach.”
“What? I can stand —”
“But not walk. Sit down again, please, Mr. Stetson, and let’s take that off. I’d like to try a different type of prosthetic.”
Lee did as he was told, but his eyes roamed the room. It was more sterile than a doctor’s office would have been in Washington, with no brightly colored explanatory posters or models cluttering the counter, except for…
His eyes narrowed at the cart Hassan had brought in with him. “One of those?” The other prosthetics all included both a foot and something around the ankles, ranging in size from something that was almost small enough to look like an ankle brace to something that resembled an entire lower leg.
Hassan was picking one of them. “This is called an ankle-foot orthosis. AFO for short. It guides your ankle into position as you walk. It does appear you’ve some equinus contracture, though it’s minor. Your prior physio gave you exercises to stretch the Achilles tendon, didn’t he?”
“She. And yes. And I’ve been doing them.” Lee considered the new prosthesis. “That’s going to limit my movement. And I won’t be able to wear an ankle holster.”
“I’ll be recommending against use of an ankle holster regardless. On either leg.”
“For how long?”
“At least until your balance is better, but I should be honest with you. It may be one of the permanent limitations.”
“Permanent limitations? No. No, wait a minute, I need to —”
Hassan cut him off suspiciously easily. “We’re not yet to that determination, Mr. Stetson. Before we put this on, will you show me one of your calf stretches? As far as you can, please.”
Biting his lip, Lee complied.
The prosthetist made an approving noise. “You’ve definitely been doing them, then. Range of motion’s almost normal. But the heel is returning to an elevated position. AFO’s the thing, then, likely with a toe filler. This one’s a little more complicated, so let’s just have me strap you in this first time so we can see how well it works.”
Relax your hands, Lee told himself. No need to break the walker just because things aren’t going the way you expected. It wasn’t easy, but he managed it.
“There we go. If you’ll try standing again.”
This time, he got to his feet the way he normally might. The feeling of the prosthetic around his ankle, though, muffled any elation he might have felt. I’m going to have to use this huge thing?
“Take a step forward, please. Left foot first.”
That, too, worked noticeably better, and he could feel the prosthesis’ heel rise to compensate. It wasn’t quite like pushing off, but there was something there he could use. His next step, the one with his right foot, was clumsy and he needed the walker. But he was able to complete it.
“Maybe just for a little while, then,” he allowed through teeth he refused to let grit. “Until I’ve trained myself well enough to use the smaller one —”
Hassan gave him a long look.
“What?”
“I’m not going to tell you that won’t happen, Mr. Stetson,” the prosthetist said. “But I don’t want to give you false hope. Most people with a Lisfranc amputation end up using the AFO and toe filler permanently. Let’s go ahead and set you up for casting for one of these, and get you started with a physio and an occupational therapist as well. We can reassess after we see how well that goes.”
Lee frowned. “An occupational therapist? I have a job.”
“Surely you have them in the States. Occupational therapists help with the practical side of recovery. Driving, cooking, dressing, managing stairs. The sorts of things you do on a daily basis. I don’t expect you’ll need much adaptation —”
“Adaptation?” Lee felt his patience evaporating. “I don’t need to worry about that, do I?”
“Mr. Stetson.” Now Hassan was firm. “There are going to be permanent changes in the ways you do some things. We can’t magically bring your foot back.”
“I know that. But they said I’d walk again.”
“And you will. But not the same way as before.” Hassan sighed. “As recoveries from these sorts of things go, you’re doing remarkably well. But nothing is going to sidestep the fact that you’ve had an amputation. There is no chance of a complete recovery as though that never happened. I’m surprised nobody explained it to you.”
Lee sat down heavily, mentally reviewing everything he’d been told up until now. His left hand, which had unconsciously reached for the string of beads in his pocket, clamped around them so tightly he knew there’d be marks later. “They’ve tried. I think. I just —” his voice was rough and unsteady. “I don’t think anyone’s ever come right out and said it like that.”
Hassan’s voice was gentle. “Most patients don’t hear it the first time. I’m sorry I’ve had to be the one to be so blunt.”
“No.” He dragged a breath in, forced it out, inhaled a second time. “No, I needed it. I just…” he trailed off. What was he supposed to do now? His mind weighed possibilities, debated options, trying to find an answer, but all he managed to do was come up with more questions and more concerns.
It wasn’t until he felt the gentle touch on his brow that he realized Mr. Hassan had left and Amanda had come in. “Sweetheart.”
He looked up to meet her eyes. “Did he tell you?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t a surprise, though. Was it.” He wasn’t asking a question.
Amanda moved to cradle his face in her hands. “No. But that doesn’t mean there’s no room for hope.”
“Hope.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t even know what that means right now.”
“It means we’ll figure things out,” she told him. “Together. The way we always have. This isn’t the end of everything. I promise.”
Lee reached up to wrap his hands around hers, begging anything, anyone, that might be listening to make her statement true. Because this was one time when he desperately wanted her to be right, even if it meant he was wrong.
- Equinus contracture is a common complication after Lisfranc amputations, since there is no longer enough foot weight to counteract the Achilles tendon’s pull. The first-line treatment is physical therapy exercises such as calf stretches, but surgery is sometimes needed.
- An ankle-foot orthosis (AFO) with a toe filler looks like a large ankle brace with a toe cap at the bottom. They are the most common prosthesis worn after a Lisfranc amputation and can be designed to correct mild equinus contracture.