So anyways, I want to thank my lovely reviewers. Handy, you're awesomesauce.

And stranger, you're awesomesauce! Someone's actually reading my stories!

Anyways, I should totally warn you.

This story is the most depressing thing you've ever laid eyes on.

PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

Months later, I'm finally let out of the hospital. My arm has somewhat healed; the stitches have closed up and I don't need to wear a bandage anymore. I've been diagnosed with PTSD—the doctors say I'll start talking again eventually, but I'm in shock right now. They're wrong, of course. I simply don't have the ability to talk anymore. Whatever that white thing was, it ruined me.

My parents pick me up and drive me home. I'd rather walk, but instead I have to sit in the back of the car as they talk amongst themselves about hospital bills, completely ignoring me. If Vanessa were here, she would have poked me until she got me to lighten up, and engage me in a conversation that had no real importance. Somehow, she always knew how to help. Obviously I didn't… all I knew how to do was to make a mess of things.

Eventually, of course, I do get into a new routine. It's hard living with only one arm, but I manage to teach myself how to cook and clean and everything else that needs to be done to live. It doesn't matter much. My parents come home at around midnight every night and leave for work no later than five in the morning. It's more than I used to see of them—they used to sleep in the hospital's staff room, so that they were always on hand for the patients. Maybe they really do care, in some weird sense.

After long months of living as an amputee pass, my parents finally start to talk about getting me some automail. They debate everything from cost to who to call, and not once do they come to me about it. I don't mind. I hope they choose to get the automail, and then finally, they do. It's my mother who tells me one night, in that clipped, formal tone she has. Apparently they've called an automail engineer for me, who's agreed to come to our house for a small extra fee. I'm to get automail, at long last. Maybe I could even learn sign language, and then I could finally communicate again.

I spend the day of the engineer's arrival cleaning the house. My parents are working—I am to be alone with the engineer when I get my automail. I'm excited, though extremely nervous as well—this is the first time I will be around someone other than doctors that I didn't know since I lost my voice. I have no idea what this stranger will think of me, and it sets me on edge.

Suddenly there's a sharp knock on the door. That must be the engineer! I run up and open the door. A large man walks in. He's at least twice my height and very menacing, with cold grey eyes and a set jaw. He looks around the room, and then down at me. I'm almost scared by how unwelcoming he looks, and then he says, "So who am I outfitting today?"

Immediately I pause. He's joking, right? He has to be. I'm missing an arm; isn't that kind of obvious?! I look up at him and see that he seems completely serious. I feel my cheeks heat up and I point at myself with my thumb slowly. I can't help but wince when the man's face turns red and his expression goes from dismissive to angry.

"You? You're joking! Look at yourself! You can't possibly be over seven!" He snaps brutally. I feel my cheeks heat up and I open, close, and re-open my fist, in an attempt to tell him that I'm ten, not seven. He doesn't seem to understand me—not that I blame him—and continues his speech. "I mean, seriously. "I mean, seriously, a weak little girl like you couldn't possibly handle automail. Come back when you're a little older." He says in a voice that's ice cold. Then he walks back out the door, slamming it behind him.

I collapse into a chair, too shocked to even hold myself up. I know I'm weak, but am I really too weak for automail? I can't possibly be—I need automail! How could I ever go without it? I can't walk around single-handed for the rest of my life!

Apparently, the automail engineer calls my parents while they're at work. They come home exhausted, as usual, and barely cast me a second glance as they go eat the leftovers from the meal I cooked earlier today. "You're getting automail when you're sixteen." My father tells me in between bites. "You can wait seven or eight more years." Six. I'm ten. Shouldn't they know this?!

At any rate, there's no way I could possibly wait that long. I can't take this sitting down. It's not fair. I need automail; I can't stand feeling so useless.

I make my decision then. I've been debating for a while now whether or not I should do this, but now I've been left with no choice. I'm going to Rush Valley, even if I have to walk there. The people in that town are known for their automail; I'm sure to find someone who would be willing to outfit a ten year old. So I wait, and eventually my parents go to sleep. I take some food, and money. When I head out, I'm confident that I'll find a way. I'll take care of myself, just like I know Vanessa would have wanted.