THE STING OF it gets worse the closer I get to the front door, like the hurt’s been saving itself up. It takes three goes to get the key in the lock. I know Lettie’s watching. I’m pretty sure nosy Oscar is too. I keep my back straight, my arm relaxed; it’s just my fingers that won’t cooperate. I can hear Splinter barking from the back as the door swings wide; I close it gently behind me and look down. The blood’s soaked my shoe. It’s dark and red, and the more I stare at it the more it hurts. It’s worse than the time I sliced my ankle open on that piece of wire from the fence. When you sat next to me and held me while I cried and told me you didn’t think we’d have to amputate the whole thing but perhaps I should just show you to be on the safe side. And you picked me up and carried me inside even though I was nearly as tall as you, and you fixed it all up, disinfectant, Band-Aids, ice pack and a stool to put my foot on. Hot sweet tea to finish.

I’m thirsty and tired. I’ve not eaten since breakfast and I’m probably bleeding to death, alone. I slide down the wall so I can gently pull off my shoe. It hurts.

I want. I want hot sweet tea and someone to carry me into the bathroom and fix my leg. I want the lights and heating on and food that I didn’t have to cook. I want someone to tell me I’m not bleeding to death by myself in the hall. I want. Want. Want. I want you. I want you to do those things, to come in and tell me it’ll have to come off, the whole leg not just the shoe, and then carry me into the bathroom and fix me up.

The hall stays gloomy. Splinter bangs at the back door. The pain stings like hot bees in my veins, making stillness impossible. I throw my shoe at the wall. Even in the fading light I can see the bloody lace prints it leaves. More mess for me to clean up. I throw the other one too; it disappears into the kitchen, crashing into something. I throw your boots, my school shoes and Splinter’s lead, not caring where they go. I’m still in here bleeding on the floor. And none of it matters to you. I kick my heels on the floorboards, flashing white-hot pain up my shin and into my head. I do it again and again and again till I can’t move my legs and my breath’s ragged.

You’re still not here.