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Even though I am able to read them, the words spelled out across my knuckles are meaningless to me-sun twelve.
I'm in the United States, where few people speak Greek, and the words are legible only when my hands are folded. So this is a secret message. Meant for my eyes only.
I look around my bare hospital room. My only personal effects are the antique watch, the potion flask, and my odd assortment of clothes, which are folded on a shelf-I'm still in the hospital gown. I notice the trash can under the sink, in which sits that blank sheet of yellowed paper. Maybe it wasn't trash after all?
I don't think I'm supposed to be getting out of bed. Good thing the door is closed.
I put my feet over the side of the bed, standing carefully. It's the first time I've walked on my prosthetic leg-or my biological leg, for that matter-since arriving at the hospital. I'm pleased to find it doesn't hurt to put weight on it. I lean to the left, finding the wooden foot flexes pleasantly and then snaps back into place as I shift my weight off it. Next step: take my first step.
With my arms out for balance, I place the heel of the prosthetic foot a few inches in front of me on the waxy brown floor. Hopping of my biological foot, my weight sinks into the prosthetic side, and as I come across it, the foot bows and then springs me forward with a little bounce. Nice. I take a bigger step this time, my arms hanging normally at my sides. There's no pain. Without sensation coming from my left foot, it doesn't feel exactly like the right one, but it doesn't take more effort to walk on, either. I go in a little circle around my bed, careful not to trip over the tangle of tiny wires which remain stuck to my forehead. It feels like I've had plenty of practice on this leg.
I sit on the side of my bed and roll up my trouser leg. For some reason I didn't expect there to be any tattoos on my leg, but I find one on my shin just above the top of the prosthetic socket.
Trust
The Broken
Seam
I make a quick inspection of the seams at the edges of the ceiling and floor. But nothing appears broken.
My finger knows exactly where to go to remove the leg. I press a valve to release the suction that holds it to my residual limb, which is sheathed in a silicon liner. I roll it down. Underneath, leg hair is matted against my skin like dry vines on a stone wall.
The leg itself weighs nothing, or something very close to it. Despite the thinness of the wood and wide circular holes forming the Swiss cheese-shell around the shin and ankle, the prosthesis feels sturdy and durable. The wood feels silky under my fingers. It's light brown with khaki grain lines and swirling knots the color of honey. I pull off the shoe, discovering a wooden foot whose shape reminds me of a cowboy boot. The J-shaped forefoot is one solid piece of wood, bent into that position by someone who really knows their way around a dead tree. This is clearly the part of the foot that flexes and springs when I step. I wonder if I could run on it?
