This preview shows pages 1–2. Sign up to view the full content.
This preview has intentionally blurred sections. Sign up to view the full version.View Full Document
Unformatted text preview: please tell me its just dislocated. Nah, he says. Like his face, his voice is cheery, only mildly interested. He could be watching all this on T.V. while he noshes on one of those marzes bars. Its broken in five-Id say, maybe six places. Im sorry, I tell him, God knows why- And then Im gone again for a little while. It isnt like blacking out its more as if the film of memory has been spliced here and there. When I come back this time, an orange and white can is idling at the side of the road with its flashers going. An emergency medical technician, Paul Fillebrown is his name, is kneeling beside me-Hes doing something. Cutting off my jeans I think; although that might have come later. My toes-did they move? I ask, Paul. Hey says, they did a good healthy wiggle. Swear to god? I ask him, and I think he does....
View Full Document