INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – LATE NIGHT

The room is dark now.
Monitors glow softly.
The hospital hums at night.

Link lies propped up in bed.

His sling rests awkwardly against his chest.
Attached to it: a small rubber grip ball.

Link squeezes it.
Once.
Releases.
Again.
Slow at first. Controlled.

His jaw tightens.
He squeezes harder.
The ball deforms under his grip — then slips slightly when his hand weakens.

He exhales sharply, frustrated.

Tries again.
This time, faster.

The movement pulls at his ribs. His shoulder protests.

Pain flashes across his face — sharp, breath-stealing — but he doesn’t stop.

He squeezes again.
And again.

The door opens quietly.

Owen steps in, mid-shift, careful not to startle him.

OWEN
Cant’t sleep?

Link doesn’t look up.

LINK
Not really.

Owen notices the ball.

OWEN
How’s the pain?

LINK
Manageable.

Owen gives a knowing look.

OWEN
That your official answer or your real one?

Link’s mouth twitches.

LINK
Official.

A beat.

LINK
Real one is… I hate this.

He squeezes the ball again. Too hard.

OWEN
Yeah.
That tracks.

Owen leans lightly against the door frame.

OWEN
Try to get some rest.
It’s as important as PT.

LINK
I know. 

He turns to leave.

OWEN
We might remove the chest tube tomorrow.

LINK
Yay.

OWEN
Get some sleep.

LINK
Good night.

The door closes.
Silence.

Link stares at the ceiling.
Then his phone vibrates.

A text from Jo.

JO (TEXT)
Luna had a little fever but it’s down now.
She’s asleep. Scout too.
They asked about you.
We miss you. We love you.

He stares at the screen for a long moment.

He types.
Deletes.
Types again.

LINK (TEXT)
Love you too.

He hits send and squeezes the grip ball again.
Harder.
Faster.

He grimaces — breath hitching — but keeps going.

This isn’t exercise anymore.
It’s insistence. Control.

Proving something — to himself.

He tries once more.
Finally, his hand gives out.
Chest rising too fast.

He closes his eyes.
Not defeated.
Not breaking.

Just wound too tight — with nowhere for it to go.

FADE OUT.