So useless, those crutches Alex got for her knee surgery and passed onto Gabriel after his fateful fall. Why do we keep them after all these years? Who needs those surplus clackety instruments of medical misfortune, clogging up the cupboard? Then . . . a flat tire, a wheel nut that won’t budge, a precariously balanced lug wrench. A flying kick to loosen the nut, the nut that still won’t budge, the recoil of the wrench that sends me reeling away from the car, my ankle connecting with the tarmac in a blast of pain. So useful now, those crutches, so very useful.
Evan Deign dreams of a life writing fiction as he gazes through his window at the kestrels that nest in the steeple of the church.