John Clark stood at his kitchen sink; he looked out the jwindow and watched mist form in his back pasture as a gray afternoon turned into a grayer evening.  He was alone, for a few minutes more anyway, and he decided he could put off no longer what he'd been dreading all day.

Clark and his wife, Sandy, lived in this farmhouse on fifty acres of rolling fields and forestland in Frederick County, Maryland, close to the Pennsylvania state line.  Farm life was still new to John; just a few years ago the thought of himself as a country gentleman sipping iced tea on his back porch would have made him either chuckle or cringe.

But he loved his new place, Sandy loved it even more, and John Patrick, his grandson, absolutely adored his visits out to the country to see Grandpa and Grandma.

Clark wasn't one for lengthy reflection; he preferred to live in the moment.  But as he surveyed his property and thought about the task at hand, he did have to admit that he had managed to put together a good personal life for himself.

But now it was time to see if his professional life was over.

It was time to remove his bandages and test the function of his wounded hand.

Again.

Eight months earlier his hand had been broken - no, his hand had been shattered - by unskilled but energetic torturers in a seedy warehouse in the Mitino district of northwest Moscow.  He'd suffered nine fractures to bones in his fingers, palm, and wrist, and had spent much of his time since the injury either preparing for or recovering from three surgeries.

He was two weeks post his fourth time under the knife, and today was the first day his surgeon would allow him to test the strength and mobility of the appendage.

A quick look at the clock on the wall told him that Sandy and Patsy would be home in a few minutes.  His wife and his daughter had driven together to Westminster for groceries.  They told him to wait on the function test of his hand until they returned, so they could be present.  They claimed they wanted to be there to celebrate his recovery with dinner and wine, but John knew the real reason: They did not want him going through this alone.  They were worried about a poor outcome, and they wanted to be close for moral support if he was not able to move his fingers any better than he could before surgery.

He agreed to their request at the time, but now he realized he needed to do this by himself.  He was too anxious to wait, he was too proud to strain and struggle in front of his wife and daughter, but more than this, he knew he would need to push himself much further than his daughter, the doctor, or his wife, the nurse, would allow.

They were worried he might hurt himself, but John wasn't worried about pain.  He'd learned to process pain better than almost anyone in the world.  No, John worried he might fail.  He'd do whatever he physically could to avoid it, and he had a feeling it would not be pretty to watch.  He'd test his strength and mobility by pushing himself as far as humanly possible.