The neurologist looked at him.
“They are neither.”
Lydia felt something colder than fear settle inside her.
“Get them.”
Charles folded his arms.
“Lydia, you are exhausted.”
“Get them.”
The hospital requested the records directly.
What arrived the next morning did not produce a miracle.
It produced questions.
Lydia’s spinal cord injury had never been documented as anatomically complete.
Early records after the riding accident showed preserved sensation below the injury level and small voluntary contractions in several muscle groups. Her rehabilitation team had recommended intensive follow-up, serial neurological testing, standing work, and long-term physical therapy.
Six months later, those recommendations stopped appearing in the records.
Not because Lydia had failed therapy.
Because Charles had transferred her care to a private physician who described further rehabilitation as emotionally harmful and unlikely to provide benefit.
Lydia remembered that physician.
He had visited the estate.
He had rarely touched her legs.
“He told me trying to stand could damage my spine,” she said.
The neurologist’s expression tightened.
“Your current imaging does not support that statement.”
Charles stood.
“We are leaving.”
Lydia looked at him.
“No.”
It was the first time she had ever said the word to her father and meant that he could not simply overrule it.
He left without her.
That afternoon, a hospital social worker and patient advocate helped Lydia request an independent review of her medical decision-making arrangements. Because there were questions about possible neglect and coercive control, the hospital made the reports required by law.
The police also took statements about Charles shoving Eli on the lawn.
Eli had a bruised shoulder, cuts on both hands, and a witness list longer than he could believe.
