Life 2.0
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4
Day Three
The third day settled into a rhythm that felt both eternal and fleeting. Time moved differently in the hospital—measured not in hours but in pain medication cycles, vital sign checks, and the small victories that marked Ji-Eun’s journey from patient to survivor.
Brent had become a fixture in her room. The nurses no longer questioned his presence, and the shift change briefings now included him as part of Ji-Eun’s care team. When they changed her dressings, they showed him what to look for—signs of infection, drainage patterns, how the residual limb should look as it healed.
“See here?” Nurse Paula indicated the surgical site. “This is good. Clean edges, minimal seepage. You’ll want to watch for any redness spreading beyond this area, increased warmth, or if the drainage changes color or smell.”
Brent leaned in, committing it to memory. Ji-Eun watched him study her wound with the same focused attention he probably gave legal briefs. No squeamishness, no pity—just careful observation.
“Got it,” he said. “And the compression wrapping?”
“We’ll teach you that in a day or two, once she’s ready to start shaping the limb for prosthetic fitting.” Paula rewrapped the site with practiced efficiency. “You’re doing great, honey,” she said to Ji-Eun. “Both of you.”
After Paula left, silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable, just ... present. Ji-Eun’s pain medication made everything fuzzy at the edges, but she was aware of Brent’s hand finding hers, his thumb tracing absent patterns across her knuckles.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said, the words automatic even though she didn’t mean them.
“I know.” His voice was quiet, steady. “I’m staying anyway.”
She turned her head to look at him. Really look at him. Three days of hospital vigil showed in the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the fatigue around his eyes, the wrinkles in his dress shirt. He’d gone home to shower and change clothes, but he kept coming back.
“Why?” The question escaped before she could stop it.
Brent met her gaze, and something passed between them—something that made her breath catch despite the pain medication. But he didn’t answer directly. Instead, he squeezed her hand.
“Get some rest. You need your strength for PT tomorrow.”
She wanted to push, to demand a real answer, but exhaustion pulled at her. And maybe ... maybe she wasn’t ready to hear whatever truth he might tell her. Not yet. Not when she was this broken, this vulnerable, this utterly dependent on his kindness.
Her eyes drifted closed, but she didn’t let go of his hand.
Later that afternoon, while Ji-Eun dozed, Brent stepped into the hallway and found Dr. Mehta reviewing charts at the nurses’ station.
“Dr. Mehta, do you have a moment?”
The surgeon looked up, assessing him with the same careful attention he’d shown Ji-Eun’s surgical site. “Of course. How’s our patient doing?”
“Better. Stronger.” Brent glanced back toward the room. “I need to ask you about something. I’m going to need to make some arrangements with my employer to be available during her recovery. Would you be willing to provide documentation about the medical necessity of having a consistent caregiver?”
Dr. Mehta’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes softened. “You understand she’ll need months of intensive rehabilitation? This isn’t a short-term commitment.”
“I understand.”
“And you’re aware she has no family locally? No support system beyond what you’re providing?”
“That’s exactly why I’m asking.”
Dr. Mehta studied him for a long moment. “I’ll have social services prepare a letter. Standard language about optimal recovery outcomes correlating with consistent caregiver support, particularly for traumatic amputations in patients without local family networks.” He paused. “But Mr. Arnold—Brent—you need to understand what you’re taking on. The physical recovery is only part of it. The psychological adjustment, the phantom pain, the grief for what she’s lost ... it’s going to be harder than you think.”
“I know.” Brent’s voice was quiet but firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The doctor nodded slowly. “I’ll have that letter for you by tomorrow morning.”
Evening brought another medication cycle, another bandage check, another meal Ji-Eun could barely touch. Brent helped her with the water cup, steadying it when her hands shook from exhaustion.
“You should go home,” she said again, but weaker this time. Less conviction.
“Not yet.” He set the cup aside, then carefully, giving her time to refuse, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Come here.”
She let herself lean into him, her head against his chest, and the tears came without warning. Not sobbing—she didn’t have the energy—just silent streams running down her face while he held her.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can.” His voice rumbled through his chest into her ear. “You’re already doing it.”
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him. But the road ahead stretched endless, impossible, and she was so fucking tired already.
Brent’s hand moved in slow circles on her back, patient and steady. “One day at a time, Ji-Eun. That’s all you have to do. Just today.”
Just today. She could survive just today. Maybe.
She didn’t pull away from him until the tears stopped and the exhaustion dragged her back under. Even then, she was aware of his presence—his warmth, his steadiness, the regular rhythm of his breathing.
He was still there when she woke at midnight, still holding her hand, dozing upright in the uncomfortable chair he’d claimed as his own.
She should tell him to go home. She should insist.
Instead, she tightened her grip on his hand and let herself have this—just for tonight. Just for now.
Tomorrow would demand everything she had. But tonight, she didn’t have to face it alone.
Day Four
Morning came with the familiar sounds of shift change—nurses trading information, medication carts rattling down hallways, the perpetual beeping of monitors marking time in electronic pulses.
Ji-Eun woke to find Brent already awake, scrolling through his phone with his free hand while still holding hers with the other. He looked up when she stirred.
“Morning. How’s the pain?”
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