The Race Anatomy

They say — when life gives you lemons, make a lemonade. But instead, I squeezed the lemon in some people eye. That damn accident turned my life upside down. Doctors said I will never walk again after some dumbass hit me with his car. But that’s when I squeezed those lemons in the doctor’s eyes. After almost two years of rehabilitation I am more than capable of walking. Before all that I was just another first-year product design student. Now, I have a dual degree in product design and physiotherapy. Nothing brings me more joy than to see people progressing, to the spark in their eyes when they make this progress.

Right now, I am walking into the building that I almost can call home. Archer’s Private Clinic. The doctors, that are working here, are real professionals. That’s what I was seeking. To be a professional, so I wouldn’t need to repeat the same sentence I heard: „We don’t want to give you false hope”.

Today is no different day: greeting our receptions Barbara, check-in, coffee, work, check-out, wishing good day to Barbara, going to other office to play product designer role. As I walk past reception I wave to Barbara because she’s on the phone. Straight after check-in I run to the break room to get my usual caffeine dose.

„Hello to you too.” The voice from the corner reached my ears.

As I look up from the coffee machine I see Darcy standing there, analysing my every move. „Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you,” I raise an eyebrow, looking him up and down, trying to analyse him. „Why are you standing in the corner? Did Mr. Porter put you there for trying to get into people’s head?”

Darcy let out a low laugh lowering his mug. He is the psychologist in this company and one of the best people I know. His way of thinking is exceptional and every single time I talk to him he puts me in a place where I have to rethink all my life and the choices I made. But then, I feel like he can see through me and just pushes my boundaries of thinking. Yeah, the more I try to explain, the more complicated it gets. It’s just his psychological games.

„You know that I like to watch people,” Darcy finally responds as he walks up to me. „And from what I can see, you are very stressed.”

I exhaled. „That’s true. Today I have a meeting with the board.” My attention jumps to the coffee machine after the clicking sound shoots through the room.

„Did you got in the trouble?” He asked carefully, not pushing too much.

I shook my head quickly. „No, God no. Barbara said there’s some kind of new opportunity.”

Darcy tilted his head intrigued. „Hm,” he took a step closer. „Well, I hope it’s good. Cause I'm not going to drag you out of the trouble.” He smiled genuinely.

„Don’t worry, Darcy,” I chuckled. „First I need to know what is this about.”

After I finished my coffee, I rushed back to my office. The place, where I spend the most of my time. Soon, the first client entered my office and that was the official start of my workday.

My treatment room wasn’t large, but it carried the calm efficiency I needed: straight lines, natural light, the faint scent of eucalyptus oil from the diffuser I always ran low and quiet. My desk sat in the corner under shelves filled with anatomy models—lumbar vertebrae replicas, a joint capsule diagram, and a knee model so worn from demonstrating patellar tracking that the plastic was slightly polished.

Today’s first patient was Lena, a middle-aged woman recovering from ACL reconstruction. She moved slowly, still cautious, her gait pattern asymmetric.

“Good morning,” I said, motioning her toward the plinth. “How’s the knee behaving today?”

“Like a teenager,” she muttered. “Rebellious.”

I smiled. “Let’s see what phase of rebellion we’re dealing with.”

As she lay down, I palpated the joint line, checking for swelling, warmth, and areas of tenderness. The patellar mobility was good, better than last week, and her vastus medialis oblique activation was starting to show more consistency. We progressed through closed-chain exercises—mini squats with proper alignment, eccentric step-downs, and proprioceptive work on the foam pad to challenge her mechanoreceptors. I monitored her valgus collapse carefully; she tended to rotate inward on fatigue.

By the end of the session, she was sweating but smiling.

“You’ll get me running again, right?” she asked between breaths.

“I won’t get you running,” I said with a small grin. “You will.”

She rolled her eyes. “You and Darcy always talk like that.”

I shrugged. “It’s part of the brand.”

When she left, I wrote progress notes: ROM improved, minimal effusion, quadriceps control improving, initiate light plyometric prep next session if stability continues.

The next patient was completely different—Mr. Hutchins, in his seventies, recovering from a CVA, with partial left-side hemiparesis. His progress was slower, but no less significant. I adjusted the parallel bars for him and helped him work on weight shifting, scapular setting, and gait cycle retraining. When he managed to take three steps without my hand lightly securing his elbow, he beamed like a child.

“Look at that,” he whispered. “Walking without the ghost hand.”

“Your balance reactions are improving,” I said, tapping the side of his shoe gently so he corrected. “You’re starting to trust your proprioception again.”

He looked down at his legs as if they were old friends who’d finally returned home. “You believed I could,” he murmured.

I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, I adjusted his walker height. “I believe what the body can do. The trick is convincing the mind.”

By midday, I had already treated patients with rotator cuff impingement, chronic low back pain, a fresh ankle inversion sprain, and one teenager pretending his knee pain was worse than it was so he could skip gym class. I sent him back with kinesiology tape and a lecture on glute engagement that made his mother laugh.

Between sessions, I inhaled a protein bar and typed notes, the keys clicking rhythmically like a metronome. My hands ached a little, the way they always did after a packed morning—two hours of manual therapy, a lot of soft tissue work on tight IT bands, stiff thoracic spines, and stubborn plantar fascia. Still, the ache wasn’t a complaint. It was a reminder that I could do this. That I had earned the right to.

Around half-past twelve, I got a second coffee—my bloodstream was practically a café at this point—and headed back to my office. That’s when Barbara waved at me from reception again. She covered the phone receiver, leaning toward me with a conspiratorial expression.

“Your meeting has been moved up,” she whispered. “Fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled.”

I blinked. “Why?”

“No idea. But several board members came in this morning. Even Mr. Archer himself.”

Mr. Archer never came in unless something significant was happening. My stomach twisted.

“Alright,” I said, trying to swallow the sudden dryness in my throat. “Thanks, Barbara.”

She winked. “You’ll be brilliant. Don’t overthink.”

I nodded, pretending I wasn’t already doing exactly that, and headed back.

My next appointment was quick—just a follow-up ultrasound therapy and manual mobilization. I barely registered my own voice as I explained the benefits of transverse friction massage or why we were focusing on the subacromial space using Grade III joint mobilizations.

The patient left, cheerful and grateful. I barely processed it. The thought of the board meeting loomed like a dark cloud at the edge of every movement. Was it funding? A new program? A complaint? Something to do with Darcy’s department?

Before I spiraled further, my last patient before the meeting arrived—Angela, a regular recovering from a L5-S1 herniation.

“You look pale,” she said immediately. “Did you forget to eat?”

“I… have a meeting,” I admitted.

“Ah,” she nodded. “Terrifying. Let’s stretch. You’ll stress-exhale it out.”

Despite myself, I laughed. She lay prone on the plinth while I worked on her lumbar paraspinals, checking her nerve root irritation levels and assessing her straight leg raise. By the end of the session, she hugged me tightly.

“You’re good at this,” she whispered. “Whatever they say today—remember that.”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

After Angela left, leaving some wise words spiralling in my head, I grabbed my notebook and left my safe place. When I headed down the hall, everything felt louder—the beeping monitors, the hum of the heating system, the distant murmur of voices.

The conference room was at the far end of the corridor, surrounded by glass panels that made it look like a fish tank for serious people. Halfway there, Darcy stepped out of his office, holding a folder.

He took one look at my expression and sighed. “Ah, catastrophic thinking,” he said. “My favorite.”

I managed a weak grin. “Stop reading my mind.”

“I don’t have to,” he replied, falling into step beside me. “Your shoulders are practically touching your ears.”

He reached over and gently tapped my right shoulder, making me drop it.

“Breathe in,” he instructed.

I did.

“Now breathe out, before you go in there and faint. I don’t want to perform a psychological autopsy in front of the board.”

I snorted. “You’re horrible.”

“I know,” he smiled. “Now go. Before I drag you in myself.”

His presence steadied me the way it always did.

I placed my hand on the boardroom door. And stepped inside. The room was quiet—too quiet.

Four board members sat around the long polished table. Mr. Porter was in his usual chair, arms folded like a sentry. Next to him sat Dr. Ramirez, the head physiatrist, and across from them, the clinic’s chief operations manager, Ms. Ellinson. And at the far end—Mr. Archer himself. The man whose name was on the building. He looked up as I entered, and something in his expression made my pulse jump.

“Please, have a seat,” he said.

I sat. My palms stuck slightly to the leather.

Mr. Porter cleared his throat. “We’ll get right to it. We’ve been evaluating several new projects for the clinic. Integrated solutions, expansion, innovation.”

Dr. Ramirez leaned forward. “And your name keeps coming up.”

I blinked. “Mine?”

Mr. Archer steepled his fingers. “We’ve observed your work for some time. Your dual background in product design and physiotherapy is… unique. More than that, your outcomes with patients have consistently exceeded expectations.” A warm flush rose to my face.

Ms. Ellinson slid a folder across the table toward me. “We’d like to propose a new initiative. One that requires someone with your exact combination of skills.”

My fingers hesitated on the folder.

“This meeting is to introduce the project,” Mr. Porter said. “To explain why you’re our first choice.” He paused. “And to see whether you’re ready for what we’re about to ask.”

Silence filled the room. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

“Let’s begin.” Mr. Archer leaned back.