"Tell Dr. Sokolova," he said, his voice thick. "Tell her the roads are open."
One afternoon, six weeks later, Halyna was struggling with a stubborn jar of pickled tomatoes. Without thinking, Leonid reached over, his right hand steady as a rock, and twisted the lid off.
Dr. Sokolova leaned back. "I can't give you a new brain, Mr. Kovalchuk. But I can teach yours to build new roads around the damage. Neuroplasticity. We will start with cognitive exercises, a specific physical therapy for your hand, and a low-dose medication to improve cerebral blood flow. But you must work. Every single day."
The autumn rain in Vinnytsia fell in a steady, grey curtain, blurring the neoclassical lines of the central square into a watercolour smudge. For three months, that same grey curtain had fallen over Leonid’s world. A former engineer who could once calculate stress loads in his head, he now struggled to remember if he had taken his morning tea.
"Open your eyes," she said softly. "You missed by two centimeters."
