“No,” Aris admitted. “But it’s the only score that matters tonight.”

The questions continued. Bowel control was perfect—he was meticulous. Bladder, the same. But toilet use was a nightmare of transfers and call bells. Toilet use = 5/10.

He stood at the nurses’ station, holding a clipboard. On it was a grid of ten simple tasks: Feeding, Bathing, Grooming, Dressing, Bowels, Bladder, Toilet Use, Transfers, Mobility, Stairs.

Aris knocked and entered. The room was dim. Hiro sat by the window, his left arm lifeless in his lap, his right hand resting on a silent Casio keyboard.

“Mr. Tanaka,” Aris began, pulling up a chair. “Let’s see how you’re doing. Can you feed yourself?”

Aris opened his mouth to defend the index— it’s objective, it’s standard, it predicts outcomes —but he closed it. Because Hiro was struggling to his feet again. Not with technique. With will.

“Bathing?”