Tommy’s classmates had written their names across the white plaster in blue and black marker.
One kid drew a lopsided lightning bolt.
His teacher sent home a worksheet packet.
Andrew told him he was lucky it was his left arm.
Patricia bought him a pack of markers from the grocery store so he could decorate the blank spots.
For the first day, Tommy was proud of it in the way children can be proud of pain once adults make it seem ordinary.
He held it up at dinner.
He showed Clara, the babysitter, the smiley face someone had drawn near his wrist.
He asked if she thought he could still play video games one-handed.
Clara told him probably, but badly.
He laughed.
On the second day, something changed.
It did not change all at once.
That was part of the problem.
At first, Tommy only said the cast felt tight.
Patricia told him it was supposed to be snug.
Then he said it hurt in a way that did not feel like the fall.
Andrew told him that broken bones hurt.
By Thursday night, Tommy was sitting on the edge of his bed at 2:13 a.m., damp with sweat, holding his casted arm against his stomach like it belonged to someone else.
Patricia came to the doorway in her robe, half-awake and already frustrated.
“Tommy, what now?” she asked.
He looked smaller in the blue glow of his night-light.
“Mom, please take it off.”
She rubbed her face.
“We are not taking off a cast because you don’t like it.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“What do you mean?”
He opened his mouth and stopped.
The truth was that he did not know how to describe pain that felt wrong.
