Her eyes narrow and her brow furrows as she listens to each inhale and exhale.

A few moments later, she hums her agreement; her gloved fingertips replace the diaphragm in a brief, silent apology for its chill.

"Humor me, slugger," she says, standing to step behind him. "I'm checking your lungs, too."

As she pivots in her socked feet to slip behind his chair, one hand skims his good shoulder, offering him a light, makeshift anchor to track her movements.