After Derrick removed the cuff—the old man certainly wasn’t going anyplace—he put it on her other leg so that she was wearing both halves of the shackles. When he looked back at the doorway, his mom had disappeared. Panic swept over him. He didn’t know what to do.

But then she returned carrying a small red-and-white plastic bottle and a glass of water.

“Looks like these Tylenol are expired, but they’re all we’ve got.”

When Derrick tried to help him sit up, Bob went rigid and screamed. But finally they got him to swallow four pills. Bridget was crying softly.

His mom’s upper lip curled in disgust as she played her phone’s light over the wound. It wasn’t bleeding as much as Derrick would have expected, but that was the only good thing about it.

“We’re going to have to try to put the bone back in,” she finally said. “You”—she pointed at Bridget—“clear off the bed so we can get him on it.”

Bridget scrambled to pull back the covers, the chain between her cuffs jingling. Derrick and Joanne managed to get a moaning Bob up onto one foot, with his arms around their shoulders. Bob had to brace himself on them each time he swung his good foot forward. Even only taking half the weight, Derrick was glad the old man had lost a few pounds.

Bob finally fell more than sat on the bed, still holding his right leg suspended in the air. Groaning, he scooted back on his elbows until his knee was supported by the mattress, his leg jutting off it.

“All right, girl, you and I are going to have to hold on to his leg just below the knee.” None-too-gently, Joanne tugged up the bottom cuff of Bob’s sweatpants. After propping her phone on a pillow, she leaned over and put her hands on either side of his knee, just above the joint. She instructed Bridget to get on the other side and hold just below. “Okay, Derrick, now you take his foot in both hands, pull it back and try to straighten it out until the bone slips back in.”

Derrick’s vision went blurry. How had everything gone so wrong, so fast? “Can’t you do it?” he protested.

“I don’t know that this whole thing is such a good idea,” Bob said urgently.

Joanne answered as if only Derrick had spoken.

“You’re stronger than I am.”

Chewing his lip, he put his phone on the top of the treadmill desk, propping it against the typewriter. It didn’t provide that much light, for which he was actually glad. Derrick tentatively laid one hand on the top of Bob’s disgusting, bare, sweaty foot. It was hairy, which made it even grosser. He cupped his other hand around the callused heel.