“I’m the last person to tell you to tone down your workout,” I said as I pulled into traffic. “But I love you too much not to worry you might be doing real damage to that muscle. Did you see that sports medicine doctor I recommended?”Silenced: A Vasily Korsokovach Mystery (2026). Copyright: Christopher H. Jansmann
Alex shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat.
Despite the heavy traffic headed toward the 57, I chanced another look at my fiancé. “What’s wrong?” I asked softly after seeing his face. Reaching for his hand, I interlaced it with mine. “Tell me.”
He took a deep breath. “Before I tell you, promise me you won’t go into full Protect Alex Mode.”
My eyebrows went up. “That’s one hell of an ask.”
“Promise me,” he pleaded.
The look of terror I saw on his face when I glanced at him was enough to quell any protest. “Promise,” I said.
Alex took another moment. “The exam was inconclusive, so she ordered an MRI. And… not just for my wrist.”
“I’m not sure I like where this is going,” I said as I shifted lanes to get onto the 57.
“That makes two of us,” Alex chuckled ruefully. “You know how hard I hit the water when I go off the ten meter; since I’ve been favoring my injured wrist, that’s shifted my form a bit — and now my shoulder is spasming.” He looked out the window. “And so’s my back.”
“F***,” I breathed. “You should have said something!”
“And risk having you pull me from the water?” he asked. “Not likely.”
“I wouldn’t have—”
“Oh yes,” he interrupted. “You would have.”
It wasn’t my intention to lead my first post of 2026 with a bit of a teaser from the next novel due out, Silenced, but it felt apropos on a number of levels. The first relates to work I did over the holidays, which included recording several new podcasts with my friend that will appear over the next few weeks. Once of those was for Baubles, the Christmas short I wrote featuring Alejandro Ortega-Cortez; that story opens with Alex on the ten meter diving board, the star attraction at a fundraiser Rosie has talked him into participating in. As he gets ready for his dive, he laments about how his body doesn’t bounce back quite as fast as it once did from the insane workouts he puts in daily; it’s a thread that I pull on slightly in Masks and wind up dealing with more fully in Silenced.
Clearly tempting fate, I made the observation to my friend during the podcast that I really didn’t have direct experience with some of the injuries Alex was dealing with, short of some minor aches and pains anyone in my stage of life occasionally experiences. We both laughed about the indignities of growing older, and our own mutual issues just trying to stay relatively physically fit in a world that demands so much of our attention in other areas.
Naturally, that was too good of an opening for whomever is actually in charge of the universe.
Fast forward to this past weekend: it’s just after New Year’s, and I’m taking down the tree and packing up the ornaments. A stack of boxes needed to be moved so I could get everything put back into the proper cabinet. Bending over, I deftly shifted the boxes…
…and something in the small of my back.
I didn’t think much of it at first, but waking up the following morning, I found getting out of bed had turned into an Olympic event. Heaving a leg out of bed was Herculean, let alone trying to stand up straight. Only once before had I felt something so severe, and that was when I’d lost my balance carrying a ladder and had twisted awkwardly; then, it had been a few days of discomfort, but I’d still been able to pull on my socks. Not this time.
Firmly in denial, I tried to tough it out that Sunday and dutifully pulled down the remaining outdoor decorations; I even managed to get around the neighborhood with Amigo, our dog. But I paid for those transgressions dearly, and landed out on our recliner overnight as it wound up being the only way I could get comfortable enough to grab a few hours of sleep.
I’m sure others who have already gone through such an experience are already shaking their heads at me — and I agree, I didn’t play it as well as I should have. I even made the mistake of going to the office on Monday; I tried to justify it as necessary since it was our first day back from the holiday, but in truth, the world wouldn’t have ended had I instead chosen to work remotely with a heating pad affixed to my back. In the end, I bowed to the inevitable and managed to get in to see my primary that afternoon; as I write this late on Friday evening, my adherence to her instructions has resulted in finally being able to reach across a desk for my coffee mug, as well as being comfortable enough to resume sleeping on my bed.
Things are still sore, a reminder that I did something significant to myself. I am also keenly aware of just how similar to Alejandro I appear to have been, though in my defense, when my wife told me to see the doctor, I immediately made the call. My friend and I also joked about the fact that I had completed my research into what poor Alex might be going through; honestly, though, I would have been quite happy to have simply remained with the anecdotes friends and family have told me over the years.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find that heating pad…