Chapter 69

Chapter 69
Thompson rubbed his head, still trying to process Georgiana's resignation and medical diagnosis. After a long silence, he finally spoke.
"You're an exceptional journalist, Georgiana. This isn't something I can decide on my own. I'll need to discuss this with management." He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the desk. "Give us at least a week or two. Wait for our official response before making any final decisions."
"I understand. Sorry for the trouble," Georgiana replied quietly, feeling a strange sense of relief just having submitted the letter.
As she walked back to her desk, she felt lighter somehow. The burden she'd been carrying had eased slightly. Simply acknowledging her condition to Thompson had removed one layer of deception from her life.
The Thornton case had been transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department. Joseph's accusations were specific and targeted, which meant Michael and other auxiliary officers no longer needed to conduct wide-ranging interviews and investigations.
However, some reporters had begun camping outside Westbrook Academy, tracking down students who had signed the letter supporting Thornton. These confrontations had led to several heated exchanges, requiring police intervention to maintain order.
Michael had spent the entire morning managing these situations. By lunchtime, he was exhausted. When he returned to the station, a colleague informed him that the chief wanted to see him.
As Michael approached the office, he overheard the chief's phone conversation through the partially open door.
"Hey, come on! We've been comrades for years. No need for formalities," the chief was saying with warm familiarity. "The kid's doing great—level-headed, reliable, and his condition seems stable. Don't worry, I'm keeping an eye on him."
Michael immediately recognized this as a conversation with his military commander. He waited until the call ended before knocking.
"Hall, come in," the chief gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Your unit wants you back for physical and psychological evaluations. Apparently, they need to monitor your condition regularly."
Michael nodded, unsurprised. This was standard procedure for his situation.
"I'm giving you a few days off. Report to your unit as requested," the chief continued, signing the leave form. "They seem pleased with your performance here."
"Thank you, sir," Michael replied, accepting the document.
At home, Michael showered and changed into his military-green training uniform, preparing to return to base. As he retrieved a hanger from his closet, he glanced at his desk—books, tools, and electrical components scattered across its surface, untouched for weeks.
He realized how consuming his auxiliary officer duties had been—leaving early, returning late, with barely any time for his personal projects. If this continued, his technical skills would inevitably deteriorate.
Georgiana's question echoed in his mind: "Are you ever afraid?"
Michael dialed Frank's number, informing him about the afternoon evaluation at the base. Frank responded enthusiastically, "Everyone's here. Come whenever you're ready." They arranged to meet at two o'clock.
As Michael approached the military base entrance, he braced himself for questions and verifications. To his surprise, the sentry recognized him immediately, offering a crisp salute without hesitation.
Michael returned the salute, feeling something stir within him—a sense of belonging he hadn't experienced in months.
Frank greeted him with a firm handshake. "How's your physical condition these days?"
Michael shrugged nonchalantly. "We'll find out during the tests, won't we?"
Before he finished speaking, Frank threw a sudden punch toward his face. Michael reflexively blocked the blow and swiftly twisted Frank's arm behind his back.
Frank immediately yielded, and Michael released him.
"Damn it!" Frank laughed, rubbing his arm, secretly pleased that his ambush had failed. Michael's condition had clearly improved.
Michael proceeded through a series of physical assessments: push-ups, standing long jump, pull-ups, and distance running. Dr. Randolph, the military psychologist who had been working with Michael since his injury, conducted the psychological evaluation in a private room.
While waiting, Frank sought out the physical training instructor. "How were his results?"
The instructor's expression was puzzled. "Strange, actually."
Frank tensed. "What's strange about them?"
"His performance was excellent," the instructor explained. "Typically, we'd expect some decline after leaving active duty. But his results suggest he's been maintaining a rigorous training regimen. He hasn't slacked off at all."
Frank's face broke into a broad smile as he clapped the instructor on the shoulder. "Great work, thanks."
He returned to the psychological consultation room, pacing outside until Michael emerged about thirty minutes later, his expression characteristically calm and unreadable.
Michael glanced at Frank briefly. "I'm heading out if there's nothing else."
Frank had prepared several questions but instead merely frowned and waved dismissively. "Go on, then." As Michael walked away, Frank called after him, "Report back on schedule next time—don't make me chase you down!"
"Understood," Michael replied without turning, raising his hand in acknowledgment.
Frank entered the consultation room, trying to maintain a casual tone. "How did the psychological evaluation go?"
"Still not passing standards," Dr. Randolph stated flatly.
Frank's optimism deflated instantly, his earlier excitement washed away by disappointment. He sighed heavily.
"However," the doctor continued, his tone shifting slightly.
"However what?" Frank asked eagerly.
"He's finally opening up about his thoughts."
"What did he say?" Frank pressed.
Dr. Randolph gave him a disapproving look. "You know I can't disclose that information."
"Fine, fine," Frank relented, still satisfied with this development. "As long as he's cooperating with treatment, that's progress, right?"
"It is," the doctor agreed. "With psychological issues, the patient's willingness to participate is half the battle."
When Georgiana left the CNN building that evening, she felt an unfamiliar lightness. Standing at the bus stop, she glanced up and noticed fresh buds sprouting on the willow trees lining the street.
Winter was finally ending; spring had arrived.
On impulse, she dialed Michael's number. When he answered, she turned away from the street, facing the bus stop sign.
"I just remembered—don't I owe you a meal?" she asked. "Do you remember that?"
After a moment's hesitation, he replied, "Yes, I believe you do."
"How about I repay that debt today?" she suggested, feeling strangely nervous. "It's the first day of March, and the weather is beautiful. Seems like a good day for it."
Michael agreed. When Georgiana asked what he'd like to eat, his answer surprised her.
"Why don't you let me taste your cooking?" his voice came through clearly.
She stood motionless by the advertisement board, momentarily speechless.
"Didn't you once claim your cooking skills were impressive?" he continued, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. "Or was that just boasting?"
Georgiana's spirit rekindled at the provocation. "You'll have to see for yourself whether I was bluffing," she replied confidently, lifting her chin slightly.
"I look forward to it. I'll text you my address," Michael replied, a smile evident in his voice.