By the time Tristan admitted to himself that something was wrong, his mobility had already begun to slip away from him in quiet, embarrassing stages. The beach that had once felt like a playground now seemed impossibly wide, and if he needed to go more than a few feet, he simply waved over one of the workers and let them bring the wheelchair. At first, he treated it like a luxury, another indulgent perk of island life, reclining in it with a lazy smirk while butlers pushed him from the villa to the shore and back again. He did not realize that every ride made walking feel less necessary, and every avoided effort made him weaker.
Soon, even getting in and out of the chair became an ordeal, requiring two attendants to brace his arms, steady his swollen middle, and help lower him carefully into place while he panted and muttered excuses. The owner still praised him, still insisted he looked magnificent, but the staff’s smiles had grown practiced and knowing. Eventually, even the reinforced chair was no longer enough. One humid morning, after a failed transfer left Tristan trembling and humiliated, the owner announced that the island could no longer meet his “special care needs.” Tristan was flown, not home, but to a private bariatric facility, where he would be fed, washed, dressed, and managed indefinitely.