#16: Prosthetics

Outside, a bird was singing.

He had no idea what kind of bird it was. One of those birds that sings the same six or seven notes over and over again. Then it does this throaty chirp, almost like a camera clicking a lens.

Looking at his wife sleeping, he thought about how little that bird knew about her. That bird didn't know how many long days his wife had spent in bed. It didn't understand how dull, repetitive, and foggy her days had become. Singing away, the bird was unaware of the distance she had put between herself and the world around her, ever since the accident.

The bill was paid by a donor. The administrator said this happened all the time in this city; there were dozens of rich people looking for the tax break of helping out a needy family without insurance.

She was beautiful, sleeping. And the bird was still singing when she woke up.

"Do you hear that bird?" He asked her.

"No," she said. She reached out her hand for her pills. Her other hand reached for where her leg had been.

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