Dad helps me change into dry clothes.
The rain's stopped. For now, at least.
Dad twitters. My cast is really wet. He's worried that we might not have another on hand. I tell him my arm doesn't hurt. It's true. Nothing hurts. I spent three days in the hospital after Mom and I were found. Multiple lacerations on the stomach and forearms, they said, and a right arm broken in three places. He's lucky that the bone didn't break the skin, they said. I told them I couldn't feel it. They said it was shock.
Still can't feel.
Dad's cutting the cast open now. He eases my arm into a sling.
"It has to do for now," he says. There are dark circles around his eyes. He hasn't slept.
"Well! Can't have you looking bad, can we? The girls won't be flocking around you if that happens!" He's trying to joke around like normal, but it seems forced.
The phone rings. Probably a neighbor offering condolences. Or one of Mom's family, which would be much less pleasant. Dad leaves to get it.
The rain's stopped, but some stray droplets spray down on the roof from the trees.
Drip, drop.
