Ten to Twenty

 201.

The only thing we have to lose, I consider just prior to my evening set of therapeutic exercises, is the chance to win. I drag my left leg forward moving like one trite but true cliché to another. Game on. I have three full days to kung-fu my story, and hence our strategic narrative and last remaining hope, into a pitch. There will be no dress rehearsal, no coaching sessions, no practice. We will get a single shot at it. It needs to be our absolute best and despite my fragile physicality, the circumstance suggests that if it is to be - it is up to me.

The idea is simple; Use the reality of the ambush, TOMs passing - and the secrets he left behind - the kidnapping of our main asset and, perhaps most importantly, the door left slightly ajar to the billion dollar scam, to persuade the Senator to re-commit operating capitol to our group. This commitment also provides the necessary political cover to conduct our operation within the boundaries of our legal system, as there exist checks and balances keeping the scales of justice equally balanced, our clandestine operation a classic example. I consider the distance we normally operate to be 'close to' the boundaries whenever not entirely within them. The subject of that debate is the reason we retain the considerable services, expertise and experience of our legal counsel, Harlan. I am glad we do.

Julie thinks likewise. I will have to tight-rope the narrative to be within the letter of the law, leaving however several critical areas subject to legal interpretation - a grey area commonly known as wiggle-room. We reserve the right to make value decisions in the heat of battle when necessary. Julie and I believe this clause to mean 'always' but Harlan, more often than not, sides with 'sometimes'. The trick it to get Hartaugh to seeing the end and not the means.

Thought time concluded, I take another step forward with my right foot and attempt another forty-five degree pivot, a move I can only execute when leading with my dominant side. The left remains numb and useless for anything but balance.

I swallow hard and twist. The Neurologist, who has been assisting in the drills, reaches towards me as a spotter does when safeguarding their partner bench-pressing a new weight. She has been invaluable in the rehabilitation process, cheerful, supportive and encouraging. She has the patience of a saint, a commodity in which I struggle one or two parcels short of a pallet. But it remains our dance as she delights in my progress and I in the creation of the plan, a living, growing, evolving vision that will soon be the blueprint for a building of monumental size and scope.

I see it as a Big House. Where we hope to soon see the Senator reside for, maybe, ten to twenty.