What happens when you let me go ham in English class

Amongst the craggy face of the coastal cliff was a town, a dense one for that matter. This little coastal town was home to many people, often called old coons. To make money, many of them had taken up breeding the best and the strongest animals. Animals that came from here often had some of the best pedigrees, especially for purebred Maine Coon cats. Time had taken its toll on the small coastal town, but that didn't stop the residents from staying put. Old weathered houses, hundreds of years old and barely modernized, stood staunchly against the stinging salty coastal wind. Their paint flaked away slightly with each new gust – it was almost time to whitewash them again, lest the vulnerable wood beneath be eaten away by the unrelenting wood. It would only impede Mother Nature's destructive personality temporarily, for her fury knew no bounds, and could devastate anyone at any given moment.
Tucked deeper within the town, low lying and tucked behind various windbreaks, was Stone & Plummer General Hospital. A sturdy brick-and-mortar building, it was built in the 1970s by a small team of architects and electricians. While it wasn't the most up-to-date building compared to the rest of the world, it was by far the most modern building for miles, and provided some of the best healthcare for the county. S&P's wings were expansive, with two floors to service up to 417 people. Designed in the shape of a chickadee, green spaces were crammed amongst retro-modern 70's architecture. The clash was interestingly beautiful in its own way.
Inside the halls were cool white tiles, contrasted with a warm beige paint. A white stripe ran along the floor and the ceiling, with the ceiling stripe being much thicker. Occasionally there would be a bit of text proclaiming the location of the hallway, and a sign would be hanging from the ceiling, letting those in the area know which way was which. The halls smelled faintly of high grade cleaner. Quiet beeps resounded into the hallway from open doors, low warning beeps coming out occasionally.
In room 124, within the Hoogendörn Rehabilitation Wing, laid a man who had survived one of the most hellish circumstances possible. This man's name was George Wilkinson, an average working man struggling to survive in this modern economy. His heart had nearly stopped due to it being unable to pump the blood, and he was in critical condition. To expedite his healing process, they had performed open heart surgery and inserted an impeller to assist his heart. Surviving pneumonia and riding the razor's edge between life and death, he had made a miraculous recovery. Within a few weeks he would be ready to go home. His body had returned to normal, he was full of energy, but he was still unable to walk well.
To encourage himself during the times that he was up and about, assisted by a nurse, he had a pedometer attached to his battery sling. Every step he took forwards was another step towards escaping the institutional beige and white, the smell of ammonia, and the constant beeping that told everyone around that his heart was still going. The count hadn't reached 250 yet – that was his goal.
“Two hundred fifty steps?” his nurse had asked. “You're setting yourself a pretty high bar there.”
“If I don't make the initiative,” he had said between sips of juice, “then I'll be sitting here for the next four months.” Downing the rest of his juice with a quiet “ahh,” he finished with a riposte of a sentence. “I'm not here to be a vegetable. I'm here to heal and to go on with my life. If I can't expedite the process, nothing will.”
The nurse just looked at him, stunned due to his fervor. “Well... alright then.”
His first days had been difficult. Barely managing more than fifty steps, his own traitorous body impeding his progress, he had fought to take back what he had lost. He had forgotten how to walk, and was relearning. “Baby steps,” the nurse had said. He had made a joke about being a child at heart, and the nurse had a sensible chuckle, lightening the mood. Over the next few weeks, driving himself nearly to exhaustion, he forced himself to just take one more step, counting each time he set foot on that cold tile. His first sign of success came when he dragged himself out of bed and took the few steps he needed to take to the walker with minimal wobbling.
“Small victories,” he had said. That was when he had asked to get the pedometer. The nurse had obliged with his request, and had brought back a small yellow one. The nurse had talked to the higher-ups about this – they said that it would make his discharge more expedient in the long run, as he would be able to show that he was ready to leave with hard numbers.
The weeks dragged on. The sun burned out, replaced by a glowing rock in the sky. Day by day, the sun reignited, lit up the sky, and he got closer to the sliding doors that would let him out into the world, to catch a breath of that delicious sea air. He eventually made it, tallying the number. It was 175 steps. The training wheels came off, and he began to walk unassisted. For a while, his numbers were lower, but he understood. He stumbled. He fell. He paused to regain his strength. But on the fourth of May, he made it. Going around the long way, he had fought the last ten steps to those automated doors. They glided open, an airlock between the hospital and the outside world. Five more steps and he would be staring out at the parking lot.
Those last few steps were momentous. Nurses from around the wing had gathered in the rehab lobby to see him take those final few steps across the carpet, around the chairs, across the tile, across the mats and into the heated space.
The sensor was only a foot away.
He reached his hand out, but he was a step too far away.
His legs were made of leaden Jello, but he took one more step.
Unsteady, his hand tripped the sensor, cutting off the infrared beam for just a moment. Mechanics clunked, and the doors to the outside world whirred apart.
As the sea air blew in, a round of applause met his ears. He hadn't noticed his audience. Turning around with the pace of a turtle, he smiled back at the nurses. The salty air filled the lobby and the man's nose. He had won. His fight was over here, but there was many more to go.
He checked his pedometer. The tiny display read out 252. Unclipping it from his battery bag, he held it high in the air, steadying himself on a handrail. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and cast a ray of sunlight, potent with its power, and made the translucent plastic of the little pedometer glow. And for just a moment, he felt like he was a member of Apollo 11, planting a flag upon a previously untouched territory.

Nice job, man.