Page 31 of Wayfarers

I had picked up along the way, not that any of

my old family placed much confidence in doctors

anyway. At this point, I’d have had my arm in a sling

made from bandannas knotted together, my mother brewing

willow bark tea on a propane camp stove,

someone with their thumb jammed

in an acupressure point behind my knee.

Now back in the parking lot, day breaking,

sitting in Sylvie’s van, arm encased

in a cast, Winslow behind us looking on

with soft, wet eyes, clearly wondering

if he would be rewarded with a treat

for all his trouble (that he caused),

staring at the addition to my arm while Sylvie drives

us back to the campground. Ever tried

to hop a freight train with a broken arm?

Neither have I. Sounds like a good way

to fall under the wheels and end

your new life before it even starts.

I’m screwed, I say, not sure whether

I’m saying it out loud

or just thinking it but not

really caring.

Knox

“Don’t think that way. You’re young and healthy. You’ll heal quick,” Sylvie says.

“I guess I did say that out loud, huh,” I say.

“In the state you’re in I could probably have a lot of fun convincing you I’m a mind reader.”

“And wouldn’t that feel good, taking advantage of the gullibility of someone doped up on pain meds.”

“Hey, believe me, I’m the last person to take advantage of anyone’s gullibility. Yesterday–I don’t even know why I’m telling you this–some wook girl and her Manson boyfriend–”

“Wook?”