Seven-year-old Toby Miller pressed his newest crayon sketch against the pale wall of Room 412, filling the very last patch of empty space next to the unconscious man’s bed.

The physical therapist Sarah found was an ex-military medic named Marcus, a man who had lost his medical license for performing off-the-books surgeries for the cartel. He didn't care about Arthur's identity; he only cared about the duffel bag of cash Sarah handed him every Friday.

For the next two months, the isolated estate became a house of agony.

Arthur’s days began at dawn. Marcus strapped his legs into heavy, hydraulic braces, forcing Arthur to stand at a set of parallel bars.

"Push, damn it!" Marcus yelled, tapping Arthur’s knees with a wooden cane. "Your spine is healing, but your muscles are atrophying! If you don't fire those nerves, you'll be in that chair forever!"

Arthur gritted his teeth, sweat pouring down his face as he desperately tried to force a signal from his brain to his dead legs. The pain in his lower back was excruciating, like white-hot needles driven into his spine. He collapsed, the hydraulic braces locking to keep him from hitting the floor.

He was gasping for air, his pride completely shattered.

From the doorway, a small voice broke the silence.

"Mr. Nobody?"

Arthur looked up. Toby was standing there, clutching a new drawing. He walked over, entirely unfazed by the terrifying scene, and taped the paper to the mirror in front of the parallel bars.

It was a picture of Arthur, drawn in superhero colors, kicking down a giant brick wall.

"You just need more practice," Toby said earnestly. "Batman got his back broken once, and he got better. I saw it in a comic."

Arthur stared at the drawing, a sudden, fierce warmth piercing through the cold fury that had consumed him for months. He looked at Toby, then at Sarah, who was watching from the hallway with tears in her eyes.