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two huge safety pins over the stump that had once been Jim's left leg.

THREE
    She wondered if she would ever get used to it. In the beginning, when the issue had been a simple one of life or death, the loss of a limb had seemed one of the lesser injuries. But now the other wounds had healed; the hair had grown back over the holes bored through skull and brain. In a few months there would be no signs except a few scars—and the emptiness where a healthy limb had been. But she would get used to it. Jim would get used to it. People could get used to anything.
    By the time Andrea reached the house, the boys had vanished inside. The front door stood wide open. Cool air poured out—she could almost see it—and insects poured in.
    They were upstairs. She heard the thud of Kevin's footsteps, and another sound that made her wince— the irregular thump and beat of Jim's progress on crutches. He had resisted the idea of an artificial... of a prosthetic device. Later, the doctor had said. Give him time.
    The thumps advanced to the top of the stairs. Andrea cried out in alarm and started up, arms outstretched. "Be careful, Jimmie—not so fast! Let me help."
    Jim stopped on the landing, halfway down. Light streaming through the stained-glass window dressed him in motley and streaked his face with crimson and green. He lifted one crutch and shook it at Andrea. Gesture and words were meant to be humorous, but there was a glint in his eyes that told Andrea he meant what he said. "If you touch me I'll fall over. Probably mash you on the way down."
    Mutely she stepped back. Jim finished the descent at a pace that appeared suicidal, but landed at the bottom triumphant and unscathed.
    "Balance," he crowed. "That's the key—Balance. Pretty good, huh?"
    Kevin followed in a more leisurely fashion. "You had a lot of practice on crutches, bro. Bound to happen if you tackled hulks like Mad Dog Martin and Too-Big Mazurski."
    "I'll never forget Too-Big," Andrea said viciously. "I swear that creep kicked you in the ankle on purpose."
    Kevin draped a brotherly arm around her. Like Jim, he was a good head taller than Andrea, with a shock of silver-blond hair brushed back from what he obviously believed was a high scholar's brow. Kevin read books when he didn't have to, and was therefore considered the brains of the group by "the guys." He was Andrea's favorite, as he was Jim's best buddy, but today she could have done without him. She had planned Jim's homecoming so carefully—
    "Jimmie, don't you think you should lie down for a while?" she asked.
    "I've been lying down for six months. I want to explore. Come on, Kevin, let's see the rest of the house."
    "Your room—"
    "Yeah, right, I want to see that." He paused in his headlong progress to add, over his shoulder, "Kevin's staying for lunch. I promised him spaghetti."
    "Hey, I don't want to butt in," Kevin said.
    "It's no trouble." The response l acked gracious ness, but Kevin had never gotten much of that commodity from Andrea. With a hasty "Thanks, Andy," he was off after Jim.
    Andrea ground her teeth. Sweat had trickled and dried on her body; the jeans, stiffened into rigidity by layers of paint, rubbed her sore ankle. She had wanted to took nice for Jim—to be fresh and cool and relaxed, so he wouldn't feel guilty about leaving her with so much work to do. But if she went up to change now, she would miss the chance of showing Jim his room, and the wing of the house that was their private quarters.
    She had lavished an unjustified amount of money on that area, the "servants' wing" behind the kitchen—money that probably should have been spent on the income-producing parts of the house. But she wanted it to be perfect—for Jim. It was their home, the private place where they could get away from guests and be together.
    Knocking out one end of the big kitchen, she had had a bay window built that opened up the room and changed its personality beyond belief. There was space for the most modern of