Chapter 6 - THE DIAGNOSIS THAT WASN'T MINE
For six months, I'd believed my paralysis was permanent.
Not because I'd accepted it easily.
Because three specialists had told me the same thing.
Complete injury.
No meaningful recovery expected.
Focus on adaptation.
Now an independent neurologist was examining my scans with a deeply troubled expression.
"Mr. Carter," he said carefully, "your injury is serious. But the available records don't support every conclusion in your original evaluation."
I stared.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we need updated testing."
My heart hammered.
"Could I walk again?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"Some patients regain limited function. Others don't. We can't predict your outcome from these records alone."
The honesty hurt.
But it also mattered.
For months, people had offered false certainty.
Either hopelessness.
Or impossible promises.
This doctor offered something different.
The truth.
"We'll assess your current neurological function, review the implanted device, and develop a rehabilitation plan based on what we find."
I nodded.
Then he looked at Faith.
"Have you been documenting the spasms?"
She nodded.
"Dates, duration, triggers, and recovery time."
He looked impressed.
"Good."
I turned toward her.
"You've been keeping notes?"
Faith shrugged.
"Someone had to."
I almost smiled.
But then the doctor continued.
"There's another concern."
I straightened.
"What?"
"The original imaging files appear to have been altered after they were uploaded."
My stomach tightened.
"Altered?"
"The metadata doesn't match the documented examination dates."
Richard leaned forward.
"Could that be an administrative error?"
"Possibly. That's why the original files need forensic review."
I looked toward the window.
Someone had hidden treatment records.
Someone had potentially falsified my diagnosis.
And the man responsible was connected to the same foundation that Faith believed had caused her brother's death.
That evening, I called Victor Blackwood.
He answered cheerfully.
"Dominic! How's my favorite invalid?"
The word struck me.
For six months, I'd tolerated it.
Now it sounded different.
"Victor."
"What's wrong?"
"I've been reviewing my medical records."
Silence.
Then he laughed.
"Why?"
"Because some of them don't make sense."
"Dominic, you're letting your imagination run wild."
I tightened my grip around the phone.
"Who authorized the experimental procedure?"
He paused.
"What procedure?"
"The one performed four days after my accident."
Another silence.
Then Victor's tone changed.
"Listen to me carefully."
I felt cold.
"Go on."
"Stop asking questions about your treatment."
I stared at the phone.
"Why?"
"Because you don't understand what you're dealing with."
I leaned forward.
"Then explain."
Victor sighed.
"Some things are better left alone."
The call ended.
I sat motionless.
Then Faith entered with my evening medication schedule.
She noticed my expression.
"What happened?"
I looked up.
"Victor knows."
Her face went pale.
"About the records?"
I nodded.
She sat beside me.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she whispered, "My brother said the same thing before he died."
I looked at her.
"What?"
Faith's eyes filled.
"He said Victor was afraid of one specific file."
My pulse quickened.
"What file?"
She reached into her pocket.
A folded note appeared.
Daniel's handwriting.
At the bottom were three words.
May you like
PROJECT SECOND DAWN.
And beneath them was my name.
