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when we spoke earlier in the hospital room. I picture the park that day, and it makes my anger and my guilt abate, slowly.
    And then my breathing slows, and I’m conscious of it, but in a dim and distant way.
    And I look out of the window and I see that the sun is coming up, a glow on the horizon. The contrail of a jet plane above catches the low light and is set on fire, a perfectly straight streak of electricity, and I’m aware that I haven’t properly slept all night.
    I press the painkiller button:
    Click, and a warm rush.

Chapter
9
    There isn’t much time for worrying about Mark the next day, because I go into the OR early for my operation. I don’t get general anesthesia this time – they just knock my leg out and go to town. There’s a kind of screen to stop me seeing what they’re doing; not that I’d mind, I’m not squeamish.
    I don’t exactly know what they’re doing. Something to do with the bones in my foot. One of them needs to be moved, I think, back to its proper position.
    Whatever it is, it takes a long time. I figure the architecture of the body must be pretty complicated down there; lots of ligaments and tendons, twisting and stretching without me knowing, to accomplish the simple task of walking.
    That’s the main thing I worry about: what if they screw something up? What if I don’t walk again, with or without a CAM Walker?
    But I try not to let it get to me. And anyway there’s another thought swirling around in there, in me. Where did Mark go?
    When I’m wheeled back to my room, I’ve got stitches down from my ankle to nearly my toes. There’s going to be an impressive scar.
    But I don’t mind about that. A scar is nothing to me. I mean, Ialready have a whole lot of them. They stretch from my waist right down to my knees – pockmarks, streaks, like a meteor storm, like the surface of the moon. I was two when it happened: I didn’t hear my mom shouting to me to stop, and I pulled a pan of hot oil from the stove, spilled it on myself. I was wearing a shirt that protected my stomach, but my legs were bare.
    My dad was already dead – he passed away when I was tiny. So it was all on her, and she’s never let go of the guilt of it. Sometimes, when she looks at my legs, I see the tears in her eyes. Not even just when she sees the scars.
    At the same time, she hates it when I feel embarrassed by them. She wishes I would go swimming with her. Mom says the scars are part of the story of me.
    I say, in that case, the story of me is a freaking horror story.
    I’d recommend at least a week’s bed rest
, says Dr Maklowitz.
    But she could leave, right?
says Mom.
    Of course. If necessary. We’ll have to train her in using the CAM Walker before we can discharge her, though. And of course we’ll need a follow-up appointment to make sure everything is healing OK. Say two months?
    So, a couple of hours later, the hospital pharmacy brings me my CAM Walker. A nurse shows me how to put it on – it’s exactly like an enormous, ugly boot. My one is white, just to add to the storm trooper vibe. There’s a sticker on the back of it that says PROPERTY OF PHOENIX GENERAL.
    The nurse makes me practise walking on it, up and down the hospital room, until she’s satisfied that I have mastered the art of WALKING. Then she shows us how to take care of the stitches, tells us about covering them up with a plastic bag if I’m in the shower or something.
    Then she sends us to the hospital pharmacy with a prescription for some hardcore painkillers – high-dose codeine, which Mom explains is a derivative of morphine, only not as strong. We walk down a blank corridor, its walls marked here and there with suspicious stains. It reminds me of a recurring dream I have, which freaks me out a bit. The child crying, the need to get to it, to save it.
    Finally we arrive at the pharmacy. There are two counters, with what looks like bulletproof glass protecting the people walking behind it. Actually, it probably is