Chapter 6 - The Mirror in the Box
At 5:45 AM, the first pale blue light of dawn began to seep through the cracks around the heavy black drapes.
Sloan walked into the third-floor bedroom carrying a long wooden toolbox she had borrowed from the estate's garage workshop.
Rafe was lying awake, his head turned toward the window. He looked exhausted, deep purple circles under his eyes, but his hands were resting flat against the mattress—not gripping his leg.
Without asking for permission, Sloan walked straight past the bed to the left window.
She pulled a heavy claw hammer from the toolbox, wedged the iron fork under the head of the first thick nail holding the black curtain to the window frame, and pulled back with all her weight.
CREEEAK.
The sound of wood splintering echoed sharply through the room.
"What are you doing?" Rafe demanded, sitting up quickly.
Sloan didn't answer. She wedged the hammer under the second nail.
CREEEAK.
"Merrick!" Rafe yelled, his voice rising in anger. "Leave those drapes alone!"
Sloan pulled the fourth nail.
The heavy black wool fabric collapsed to the floor in a dusty heap, instantly flooding the dark, claustrophobic bedroom with brilliant, blinding blue morning light from Narragansett Bay.
Rafe flinched violently, covering his face with both hands, his body curling away from the sudden glare.
"It's bright," he growled through his fingers.
"It's sunlight," Sloan corrected him, throwing the hammer back into her toolbox. "It's free, it's natural, and it lowers cortisol levels."
She pulled a large, rectangular object wrapped in a white canvas sheet out of her tote bag and set it on the floor beside the bed.
Rafe peeked through his fingers, his eyes red and watery as they adjusted to the light. He looked down at the object.
"What is that?"
Sloan untied the string and pulled the canvas sheet away.
It was a simple, full-length dressing mirror set inside a light pine frame—the kind of cheap mirror sold at college dorm supply stores.
"A mirror," Rafe said flatly. "You brought me a mirror so I can admire how pathetic I look?"
"In 1996, a neurologist named Vilayanur Ramachandran invented a technique called Mirror Box Therapy," Sloan said, sitting on her wooden stool. "It's designed specifically for amputees suffering from intractable phantom limb pain."
Rafe stared at the glass. "I don't need magic tricks."
"It isn't magic. It's optical feedback," Sloan said.
She stepped forward, grabbed the rectangular mirror, and set it vertically on the mattress, positioning it straight down the center line of Rafe's body—between his legs—with the reflective side facing his healthy left leg.
"Look into the glass," Sloan commanded softly.
"Merrick—"
"Look at the glass, Raphael."
Rafe hesitated. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked down into the mirror.
Because of the angle, the reflection of his intact, healthy left leg was mirrored perfectly onto the right side of his body.
To his brain, looking into the mirror created a flawless visual illusion: two complete, healthy legs resting side-by-side on the white cotton sheet.
Rafe’s breath hitched in his throat.
His eyes widened in absolute, profound shock. For seven months, every time he looked down at his body, he saw a missing limb—a terrifying visual void that confirmed his brain's internal panic signal.
Now, his eyes were sending a clean, unmistakable visual signal to his parietal cortex: The leg is whole. The leg is safe.
"Now," Sloan whispered, leaning close to his shoulder. "Wiggle the toes on your left foot."
Rafe swallowed hard. Slowly, tentatively, he curled the toes of his left foot.
In the mirror, his "right foot" uncurled simultaneously, moving cleanly, smoothly, and without pain.
Rafe let out a long, shuddering gasp.
His shoulders dropped three inches. The rigid, knot-like tension in his right thigh visibly melted away as his brain processed the visual feedback.
"It... it stopped," Rafe whispered, his voice trembling uncontrollably.
"The burning?" Sloan asked.
"It... it feels cold," Rafe said, tears finally welling up in his dark eyes and running down his scarred cheeks. "It feels... like a foot again."
Sloan sat back on her stool, folding her hands in her lap.
"The visual signal overrides the static from your severed nerves," she explained gently. "Your brain thinks the leg is un-cramped. Do this for fifteen minutes every morning and every evening."
Rafe didn't take his eyes off the mirror. He kept curling and uncurling his toes, watching the reflection as if he were witnessing a miracle.
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Standing outside the half-open bedroom door, Augustus Moretti stood in the hallway, his hands clutching his wooden cane, his old eyes wet as he watched his grandson through the crack in the oak frame.
Beside him, Daniel Bishop let out a long, silent breath, pulling a black leather wallet from his jacket and pulling out a heavy stack of hundred-dollar bills.
