It was lunch time and his arm hung limp at his side.
He held it at such an odd angle that he looked like a bird with a broken wing.
He alternated between nervously chewing the collar of his shirt and then the fingertips of his good hand.
Stillness had left him completely. He shifted his weight from foot to foot unable to stop squirming.
He seemed incredibly anxious, terrified maybe, desperate to keep his fear in check.
“Who is this person?” I wondered.
He was not himself, not at all.
The couple at the table behind us stared at him, but because his back was to them he didn’t notice.
“What do you think is wrong with him?” they asked each other in whispers they thought I couldn’t hear.
An old man complimented my girlfriend and lunch companion.
“You’re doing a fine job raising your boys!” he told her without looking at me.
Earlier that morning the doctor had said,
“He’s healed perfectly, beyond my expectations! We’ll take the cast off right now.”
I understood what I was supposed to do for this kind of broken...
I'm afraid the other kind of broken is uncharted territory.
What am I supposed to do when the bone is healed, but the kid is not?