My shoulder was disjointed and full of slime. Certainly. My left leg was also paralyzed. I was ankylosed and calcified and atrophied. But of course. Agony—sic. What was left of me might be a stumblebum but the outside part could somewhat swim still and the inside part could fly.
My brother was dead.
There was work to do.
To hell with Dr. Jerkski, great man of the Institute.
I would frustrate every specialist in Poland.
Take up your bed and totter, Wylie.
It required a year for the doing—in Warsaw and Paris, Manhattan, Connecticut, and California.
Then I had entirely recovered.
Trauma excepted.