Orlov shoots me a glance over her head before responding. “Trauma manifests differently for everyone. Sometimes, the mind creates scenarios where you feel in control as a way to process feelings of helplessness.”
“So, I didn’t learn hand-to-hand combat?”
“Given your background, it’s highly unlikely. These are probably composite memories. Fragments of movies, books, and things you’ve seen that your brain is reassembling into false experiences.”
He pulls out his penlight and approaches her chair. “May I check your pupil response?”
She nods and tilts her head back, but I notice she doesn’t close her eyes during the examination. She’s still watching, still assessing.
“Good response.” Orlov clicks the light off. “Reflexes appear normal. Any dizziness or nausea?”
“None.”
“Excellent. Let’s try some coordination tests.”
He guides her through the usual battery: Follow the moving finger, touch nose to fingertip, and stand on one foot. She executes each task without so much as a stumble.
When Orlov has her walk a line heel-to-toe, she moves like she’s walking a tightrope. Her balance is perfect, her breathing is controlled, and every step is placed with accuracy.
“Outstanding motor control,” Orlov observes as he makes notes on his clipboard. “Much better than I expected given the severity of your head trauma.”
“Is that unusual?” She sits back down but perches on the edge of the chair rather than settling fully into it.
“Everyone heals at their own pace. Your recovery has been remarkably smooth.” But over her head, he gives me a look that says everything. That wasn’t civilian coordination. That was someone trained to move silently, to maintain balance under stress, and to fight when necessary.
He continues with reflex tests by tapping her knees and elbows with a small rubber hammer. Each response is quick and stronger than what you’d expect from someone who’s supposedly spent years hunched over art books.
“Now for grip strength.” He holds out a device that measures pounds of pressure.
She takes it, and I watch her face as she squeezes. Her expression goes blank for a moment. The device registers the pressure, and Orlov’s eyebrows rise to his hairline.
“That’s… quite strong. Can you try again, but more gently this time?”
She realizes what happened and adjusts, but the damage is done. That first squeeze was the real her.
“Sorry,” she mumbles as she hands the device back. “Sometimes I don’t know my strength.”
“No problem. We’ll recommend some physical therapy to help you recalibrate.” Orlov makes another note and then pulls out a series of cards with black and white images. “Word association test. I’ll show you pictures, and you tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Don’t think about it, just respond.”
The first few are innocuous. Flower gets “pretty.” Car gets “fast.” House gets “safe.”
Then he shows her a picture of a knife. Her gaze sharpens, too focused for something so ordinary.
“Throat,” she says automatically, the word flat and matter-of-fact. Then she blinks, and she scrunches up her face. “I meant… for cutting food.”
But we all heard that first response. Cold. Clinical. The response of someone who’s used knives for purposes that have nothing to do with cooking.
Orlov makes a careful note before showing the next card, a man in a business suit talking on a phone.
“Target.” Her hand flies to her mouth as she sucks in a gasp. “I don’t know why I said that. I meant… businessman?”
“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor assures her.
The last card shows a foreign government building. She doesn’t pause.
“Enemy.” The word is out before she seems to realize it. “That’s… that doesn’t make sense. Why would I think that?”
“Sometimes, our minds make connections we don’t consciously understand,” Orlov offers as he packs up his materials. “It’s all part of the healing process.”
