By the end of week 4, Dr. Rao handed me a folder. "We could use a float tech. A few hours here and there. You'd work with the therapy team. Keep things light, low-stress."
I stared at the folder like it might bite.
She added, "No pressure. But I see how you move around the animals. You haven't lost your hands. You just lost your place."
I took the papers back to my room.
I didn't fill them out that night. But I didn't shove them in a drawer either.
**
Over the weekend, I visited the psychiatric facility.
Theo was in the garden courtyard. He was on a bench, sketchbook open, pencil tapping against his knee. The ward staff let him out during daylight hours when he was stable enough.
I sat down beside him without saying anything.
After a minute, he glanced over. "Still hate onions?"
I smiled. "Still pick 'em off one by one."
We sat like that for a while. There was a small koi pond, a couple of half-dead rose bushes, and a squirrel who acted like he ran the joint. The sun warmed the concrete, while someone's windchime clinked lazily in the breeze.
Eventually, Theo said, "You look better. Less... brittle."
"Working on it."
He nodded. "You working again?"
"Kind of. I found a clinic that fits. Private practice, general exams mostly. Nothing too wild."
"That's good."
"It is."
We didn't dive into the dark stuff, we didn't have to. It was enough to just be near someone who remembered who I was before I shattered, someone who never asked for the whole story.
**
That night, I looked at Dr. Rao's folder again.
Then I opened my laptop.
Searched for vet schools.
Clicked on one, then another.
I closed the tab, then reopened it.
Typed three words into a blank document:
Personal statement draft.
And just like that, something started.
Not a comeback or a fix.
Just a start, and that was enough for now.