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male, sixty-eight, Vietnam vet, and lower-arm amputee, with no other major health issues besides possible depression and slightly elevated blood pressure. He’s having phantom pains, and I don’t know what to do to help him. Ideas, anyone?
    Jenna F: Suggest therapy?
    Leona A: Thanks. I’ll try, but that probably won’t go over so well. He’s got a lot of stubborn pride, and I believe he’ll see therapy as an admission of weakness.
    Mike G: That guy in the wheelchair in Forrest Gump was an amputee AND a Vietnam vet. Freaky coincidence, huh? What was that guy’s name?
    Leona A: Wow, that is a crazy coincidence, Mike, and Forrest Gump is a good movie, but does anyone have an idea to help my patient?
    Maria S: Lieutenant Dan!! Ding, ding, ding! FTW!!
    Mike G: Nice one!
    Maria S: I didn’t even have to Google it.
    Leona A: Impressive memory skills, Maria, but can anyone help me????
    Darryl K: Does he own a full-length mirror?
    Leona A: I don’t think so. Why?
    Darryl K: When the pain hits, if he looks at his whole body he’ll get a visual of the amputated limb in relation to the rest of him, and his brain will remember that his lower arm is gone. All those synapses will hook up and—presto!—no pain.
    Leona A: Well, aren’t you the smart one? Maybe I should reconsider our study-buddy situation.
    Darryl K: Are you that easily impressed?
    Leona A: Usually.
    Darryl K: A woman of low standards. My favorite kind. Consider yourself partnered up!
    Leona A: Thanks again for the tip. It’s genius.
    Darryl K: No problem. To be honest, I saw it on an episode of House.
    Leona A: Seriously.
    Darryl K: Yep. And you are officially locked in, study buddy! Our first quiz is due next Tuesday. Why don’t you tackle the study guide?
    Leona A: Yeah. Sure. Great.
    Maria S: You two are so cute.

    “Auntie Lee?”
    Maura stood at the bottom of the basement stairs, two foil-wrapped packages in hand. Shy about invading my personal space, she shifted from foot to foot in her Converse high-tops instead of moving toward me. “Mom packed some roast beef sandwiches so we could eat on the way. Is that okay?”
    “Perfect. Let me pack up my laptop and we’re off.”
    The upstairs was strangely quiet as we moved through the house, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that Carly was avoiding me. She’d only texted once that day, to remind me of Maura’s tutoring appointment, and responded with uncharacteristically concise directives when I texted back. 7:30 p.m. Library. Don’t leave the building while she’s being tutored.
    And good afternoon to you, too! I texted back. And got nothing in response.
    Fine. I understood. I’d dropped a bomb on her lap, and she was figuring out how to defuse it.
    Maura was just as silent as her mother while we drove to the library. I took a few bites of my sandwich and didn’t attempt to engage, a survival tactic learned while navigating my father’s volatile mood swings during his illness—if I stood mostly still, if I didn’t stare at him with pleading puppy dog eyes, if I could somehow manage to avoid the constant refrain of What’s wrong? Did I do something? Are you sure everything’s okay? then whatever was bothering him would pop to the surface eventually, like a cyst, benign and contained. I just had to wait it out.
    Sure enough, only a mile from the library, Maura stopped tapping away at her phone and said, “I’ve never had a tutor before.”
    “You’ve never had algebra before. It’s a tough subject.”
    She shrugged. “I thought eighth grade would be different.”
    “It’s only been a few weeks—”
    “Eliza Jane got her period yesterday. She instagrammed a box of tampons.”
    And there it was. The actual problem, rising up. “Yours is coming, sweetie. You just have to trust your body. Your mom and I were both fourteen when we got ours. That kind of stuff is usually hereditary.”
    She gripped the dashboard. “You mean I still have six more months to go? Six whole months? ”
    “Not