***
Later, when Arty came to, he was lying in the midst of hushed, urgent conversation. The bright, round light overhead hurt his eyes, and he was encased in something…sheets, a bed. He tried to sit up and found he couldn’t. Both legs, from the hips down, had gone completely to sleep, and the pain…he couldn’t bear it. He forced a word up his throat, past his dry, swollen lips. Help. A doctor and his staff stopped talking and all turned his way. Help, Arty mouthed again, my legs, please help, my legs, I can’t…