“KSE clinical trial, day 15 post-surgery,” Dr. Brandie spoke softly into the handheld microphone unit. Her tone was clinically neutral, the auditory equivalent of the eggshell-white walls of the laboratory she sat in. That placid neutrality was a practiced, hard-to-maintain thing; it was all she could do to sit still and quell her giddiness just looking up at the figure seated across from her. “Patient name, Brett Harmon,” she said, looking at his seated posture—upright and unsupported by external assistance devices. The overhead fluorescent lights were sleepy and buzzing, casting tired shadows over Brett’s sunken and atrophied face, but Dr. Brandie’s eyes sparkled as though she stared at gold—not a man but a Nobel Prize, unlimited grant funding, whatever ends her professional heart desired.

“Following successful surgical implanting of the KSE Nexus, Brett received his first injection of KSE substrate on day 0, a second on day 8, and his final just this morning—day 15. No adverse reactions were observed.”

Aside from the steady rising and falling of his chest, Brett sat as still as a mannequin. The effect was somewhat unnerving, so Dr. Brandie moved to start with the tests.

“On day 8, we began testing of physical capabilities for Brett’s arms and torso, finding hand and arm function to be fully restored.” Dr. Brandie’s face was colored by wistful recollection, watching again as the man passed his arm back and forth in front of his face in shock and amazement. His face was still mostly paralyzed—that degree of fine muscle control was still beyond this iteration of the KSE—but Dr. Brandie could see the way his eyes lit up with wonder at his recovered capability. She’d promised him more wonder, and today, she made good on that promise.

“With this morning’s final substrate dose administered, we begin trials now for Brett’s lower body—legs, balance, and coordination." She stood, and, to her continued delight, Brett stood as well. The two walked over to a treadmill where technicians stood at the ready with wires and electrodes, always wires and electrodes. As they were fitted to Brett’s arms, chest, and neck, Dr. Brandie walked toward the treadmill’s controls.

“We’re starting our first trial with sustained walking speed of 1 meter per second,” the technician said. “Just south of average walking speeds.”

Dr. Brandie shook her head. “Were this some patient recovering with traditional muscle therapy, that might make sense… giving the withered muscles time to find their proper paths of motion. But remember that the KSE is doing the lifting now, and it doesn’t need to be babied… you don’t have to drive your new car at a turtle’s pace until the engine gets used to driving. No, I think we’ll start with a run. Configure for 3.5 meters per second.” The technician swallowed, but she complied, both knowing that arguing the point would get her nowhere.

Dr. Brandie next reached for a thick print of foamboard propped up on a nearby lab counter. Its surface was covered in ovals, and each oval featured a word or phrase written inside. The largest two ovals were at the bottom left and right corners, containing the words Yes and No respectively. Words were clustered based on semantic meaning: near to the Yes oval was one that said Please, and to that oval’s right was one that said Thank you. As was the case with facial expressions, the fine motor control of speaking was beyond the KSE, but Brett could communicate by way of pointing at this board… there would be time to learn sign language later.

Dr. Brandie watched with satisfaction as the final electrodes were fitted to Brett’s chest and his gown was drawn back closed.

“Are you ready, Brett?” she asked. She held up the communication board, and Brett tapped the oval for Yes.

Technicians stood to either side, clipboards in hand. Brett climbed atop the machine and gripped the handrails—his hold was relaxed, easy. No muscles quavered, there was no clumsiness of newfound mobility Dr. Brandie had seen in so many physical recovery trials… Brett looked like any other runner climbing onto a treadmill, ready to begin today’s workout.

“Begin trial,” Dr. Brandie commanded, and the treadmill was toggled on. Its track rolled slowly at first, and Brett shuffled forward to keep up with its leisurely pace. In seconds, that steady slow roll became a trot, and Brett’s posture changed to adapt. His arms drew in, and his steps jostled him easily up and down as he kept up. By the rising whir of the electric motor, Dr. Brandie could tell that the belt was still accelerating—perhaps accelerating too much. A voice in the back of her mind told her to stop it there, to consider this trial a success at even this speed, but a louder voice wondered just how far the KSE could go.

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“Doctor, should we, well…” started the technician nearest, but she let her question trail off. She, like Dr. Brandie, was totally captivated by the smooth, easy run of the man on the treadmill—a man who hadn’t even been able to turn his head mere weeks ago.

“Heart rate data?” asked Dr. Brandie.

“Elevated, but stable, and not all that far from baseline for a non-athlete running.”

“Substrate muscle readings?”

“Contractions are stable, sustained.”

Dr. Brandie let out a laugh of delight. “Push the treadmill up by 1… 4.5 meters per second.”

The engine whirred high-pitched chords, and Brett’s stable thumping steps matched the new tempo. Dr. Brandie’s eyebrows raised… she herself would certainly struggle to keep up now.

“Substrate exertion readings?”

“40% channel capacity,” answered a man at a computer terminal.

“Far better than I’d have imagined—push to 6.5 meters per second.”

The machine’s base rattled as it whipped its belt by at dizzying speed. This was no longer a mere run… this was a sprint. Dr. Brandie watched in amazement as Brett released the handles, his arms tucking in and pumping with each footfall. A sheen of sweet blossomed across his body. His footfalls thundered in the quiet laboratory. He was racing for Olympic—no, medical—gold, and it seemed he had so much more—

“Ma’am, isn’t that enough to prove his mobility?” asked the woman again, interrupting Dr. Brandie’s wandering thoughts.

“If he wanted to stop, he’d—” Dr. Brandie’s eyes widened. He’d tell us, she had been about to say, but non-vocal Brett could hardly point to a communication board while sprinting.

“Right, yes. Of course. Stop the test.”

The humming of the engine cycled down. Brett gripped to the handles as the frantic sprinting pace downgraded to spirited running to brisk jogging to steady walking and then, at long last, stillness. His breathing was shallow, and his heartrate readings were nearing the red zone.

“Push to media outlets that patient John Doe’s peak running speed was 15 miles per hour,” Dr. Brandie said to her communications manager. Only then did she think to grab the foamboard and approach her star runner.

“I can see your eyes are wide… you’re as impressed as we are, aren’t you?” She proffered the board, and Brett tapped the Yes oval. His finger left a small damp trail as it slid towards the Thank You oval.

“Are you alright?”

Yes, Brett tapped. Good. From the final word, his arm fell loosely, exhaustion evident.

“Given what your life was like only a month ago, I’d bet you never expected you’d be sprinting today, or perhaps ever again. Has the KSE been everything you wanted it to be?”

Dr. Brandie smiled warmly as Brett tapped the Yes oval, followed by Tired.

“Of course,” she said, giving Brett a gentle clap on the shoulder. “We’ll give you a half-hour to rest before bothering with the balance beam and soccer ball. For now, Manny over there will get you an iced drink of your choice... doctor’s orders.”

He walked in the indicated direction to find Manny, and as he did, Dr. Brandie watched his posture, his bearing. Already, his legs and muscles carried him as though he hadn’t been sprinting. There was no trembling, no lagging. His breathing and heartrate would need to recover, but his endoskeleton and new musculature was entirely unperturbed, was ready to sprint immediately again should he have willed it.

Last, her eyes traced to the top of Brett’s back, where she noted a small blossom of red dabbing Brett’s hospital gown. His sprint must have torn at his stitches, she reasoned. That part didn’t need to make it into the press release.

Mom, this trial was for you, Dr. Brandie thought. For everyone who thought what the nerves lost was lost for good, let today’s run prove you wrong. No more kids left alone in the world, no more loved ones wasting away in wheelchairs…

Her mind was once again wandering her Pennsylvania childhood home, traipsing after mom’s stumbling footsteps, imagining the way mom’s face would’ve lit up if then-eight-year-old Laura had given mom the gift of walking again.

“Oh, Laura, it’s a wonderful thing you’ve done,” she imagined her mom saying, in that always-formal way she had. “A truly wonderful thing you’ve done.”

Dr. Brandie’s hand closed to a fist in her lab-coat pocket, pulling out the small hand-held recorder. “Locomotion test: success,” she intoned, eyes wet, but not quite crying. She was a professional in her laboratory, and such positions required emotional control. With a tone as flat as her mother’s once had been, after the illness had stolen all vocal affect and joy from her voice, Dr. Brandie finished her trial log: “Sustained sprinting speed of 6.5 meters per second achieved; plan to push for faster running in future trials.”