Michael smiled. They'd moved it so far away when they came to take blood samples and his vitals, and reevaluate his legs. He hadn't had the chance to ask for it to be brought back before they'd left. "Thanks..." He said weakly, shaking his hands a little when his fingers tingle. He'd had them curled over his work too long. "I don't mind if you go. I'm just glad to know you'll tell me first." That way he didn't feel so helpless. In just an hour Sasha had made Michael open up more than anyone else. The therapist that had been called in to talk to Michael about his endurances. The mediator to get him accustomed to the world around him again. He'd been in that basement for seven years, mostly dragging himself around, stuffed into a tiny cage when left entirely alone. No doubt it had actually stunted his growth, and obviously had paled his skin and made it soft and delicate, unaccustomed to the elements of nature and society.

He looked down, using a couple new pins, two that ended in a ball joint so they could move to a specific degree. This would be the skeleton for the horse's bent leg. "Before you go, I just... I want to say thanks for what you're doing." His voice was low---hopefully Sasha could hear it. "I've been told I should talk about what happened to me to face it. To acknowledge it and get the weight out. I hope you wouldn't mind if I did that sometimes." He breathed in, a tremor in the sound. "It's nice that someone around here isn't so... fakey." Faking care, emotion, sympathy. They'd just done this too long, perhaps. They'd seen it, heard it, got tired of it. Maybe nursing wasn't their first choice of job.