Excerpt

PROLOGUE

The Real Tragedy Was That I'd Finally Figured Out How To Program All The Good Stations On The Radio.

I barely remember the accident at all.

It unwinds in my memory in slow motion: driving down the street, adjusting the radio, noticing that suddenly a car was turning where it shouldn't be. Then, the impact. I remember being immediately worried about the girl who had made the illegal left-hand turn in front of me, and who was standing outside my window in hysterics, asking if I was all right. My door was stuck, but I was more irritated that something had smashed the radio, as I'd finally just figured out how to program all the good stations.

I remember being embarrassed that the car was blocking traffic, and trying to push it out of the intersection before one of the drivers from the opposite lane who had stopped to help convinced me that I should leave it as is, sit down on the curb, and wait for the ambulance that could be heard in the distance. It was only then that I noticed the numbness that ran along the length of my right arm.

The trip to the hospital was a blur, my memories hazy with dread about how I was going to explain to my friend Chuck that I'd just wrecked his car. I never noticed the brace that was on my right arm until the doctor began speaking to me.

Apparently, when my car smashed into the young lady's car, my hand had smashed into the radio, which wrecked both the radio and my hand.

My drawing hand.

The doctor came into the room with a clipboard in his hand and a cheerful expression on his face.

"You're pretty lucky," he said, looking over the notes on his clipboard. "That was a pretty nasty accident, but the other driver wasn't hurt at all, and it seems all you've broken is your right hand. Like I said," he repeated, "lucky."

"How bad is it?" I asked, not quite daring to look directly at my arm.

"There's been a lot of damage," he replied matter-of-factly, gesturing at an X-ray. "The bones in the joints of your first two fingers were crushed. We could do surgery, but that would create scar tissue and complicate your rehabilitation. The good news is that we were able to set the bones, and, once they heal and you complete a year or so of therapy, you ought to have at least thirty or forty percent of the use back."

"Ah," I replied. "That doesn't sound so good."

The doctor frowned, irritated that I wasn't happier with his prognosis. "It's very good," he said as he headed for the door. "Unless, you know, you rely on your right hand being at a hundred percent to do your job."

"Actually," I said pointedly, "I do. I'm a comic book artist."

The doctor stopped in the doorway and glanced back at me. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Not anymore you're not."