he’s there in the doorway.  red-faced, greasy, and giggling.  i tell him to go bother someone else, please, i need to have treatment.  he scampers off like some adult-sized Puck.
the doctor asks me if i’m ready and i say that i am. i relax in the hospital bed, sitting up with my knees bent. i give him my right arm, palm up, and watch him make the first and largest incision down my arm.  every bone is hollow and filled with deep-red gelatinous blood. he tips each bone over a vial, sometimes waiting minutes for the clot to gather itself in descent.  he empties both my ulna and radius, every metacarpal and phalanx, fitting them together again like bamboo poles in my hand.  when every bone has been put back in its place and i am stitched up, i go wondering through this hospital-home.
i get to a large hallway that curves around a dim common area.  it is covered in those tiny styrofoam packing bits.  “you guys!” i yell at them. only one boy is visible to me.  “I just had my procedure and i wanted to go out tonight!” the boy stands up holding a handheld game and proceeds to exit without helping.  he looks back to tell me “he’s wasted again.”  I shake my head and tell him,”I know.  I saw him.” I hope they contain him before he causes too much damage to himself or his surroundings.  the styrofoam is static-y and clinging to me.  i stay there in near-darkness, still in my hospital gown, stitches stiffening, sweeping and sweeping….