heals bones

He leaned his hands on his desk and regarded me, eyes sparkling. "I know how wizards live forever." He paused for a thoughtful second and then said, "Wait, that's six words. Never mind, then. What did you want to talk about?"
My mouth fell open. I shut it and glared at him. "No one likes a wiseass, Butters."
He grinned. "I told you it was important."
"Wizards don't live forever," I said. "Just a really long time."
Butters shrugged and kept pulling out file folders. He flicked on a backlight for reading X-ray films, and started pulling them from the folders and putting them on the light. "Hey, I'm still not sure I buy into this whole hidden-world-of-magic thing. But from what you've told me, wizards can live five or six times as long as the average human. That's closer to forever than anyone I know. And what I've seen makes me think there must be something to it. Come here."
I did, frowning at the X-rays. "Hey. Aren't these mine?"
"Yep," Butters confirmed. "After I switched to one of the older machines, I got about fifteen percent of them to come out," he said. "And there are three or four from your records that managed to survive whatever it is about you that screws up X-rays."
"Ugh. This is that gunshot wound I got in Michigan," I said, pointing at the first. It showed a number of fracture lines in my hip bone, where a small-caliber bullet had hit me. I had barely avoided a shattered pelvis and probable death. "They got this one after they got the cast off."
"Right," Butters said. "And here, this is one from a couple of years ago." He pointed at a second shot. "See the fracture lines? They're brighter, where the bone re-fused. Leaves that signature."
"Right," I said. "So?"
"So," Butters said. "Look at this one." He flipped up a third X-ray. It was much like the others, but without any of the bright or dark lines. He flicked it with a finger and looked at me, eyes wide.
"What?" I asked.
He blinked, slowly. Then he said, "Harry. This is an X-ray I took two months ago. Notice the lack of anything wrong."
"So?" I asked. "It healed, right?"
He made an exasperated sound. "Harry, you are dense. Bones don't do that. You carry marks where they re-fused for the rest of your life. Or rather, I would. You don't."
I frowned. "What's that got to do with wizard life span?"
Butters waved his hand impatiently. "Here, here are some more." He slapped up more X-rays. "This is a partial stress fracture to the arm that didn't get shot. You got it in that fall from the train a couple nights after we met," he said. "It was just a crack. You didn't even know you had it, and it was mild enough that it just needed a splint for a few days. It was off before you were ambulatory."
"What's so odd about that?"
"Nothing," Butters said. "But look, here it is again. There's a fuse marker, and in the third one, poof, it's gone. Your arm is back to normal."
"Maybe I just drink too much milk or something," I said.
Butters snorted. "Harry, look. You're a tough guy. You've been injured a lot." He pulled out my medical file and thumped it down with a grunt of effort. Granted, there are phone books smaller than my hospital file. "And I'm willing to bet you've had plenty of boo-boos you never saw a doctor about."
"Sure," I said.
"You're at least as battered as a professional athlete," Butters said. "I mean, like a hockey player or football player. Maybe as much as some race-car drivers."
"They get battered?" I asked.
"When you go around driving half a ton of steel at a third the speed of sound for a living, you get all kinds of injuries," he said seriously. "Even the crashes that aren't spectacular are pretty vicious on the human body at the speeds they're going. Ever been in a low-speed accident?"
"Yeah. Sore for a week."
"Exactly," Butters said. "Multiply that. These guys and other athletes take a huge beating, right? They develop a mental and physical toughness that lets them ignore a lot of pain and overcome the damage, but the damage gets done to their bodies nonetheless. And it's cumulative. That's why you see football players, boxers, a lot of guys like that all beat to hell by the time they're in their thirties. They regain most of the function after an injury, but the damage is still there, and it adds up bit by bit."
"Again I ask, what's that got to do with me?"
"You aren't cumulative," Butters said.
"Eh?"
"Your body doesn't get you functional again and then leave off," Butters said. "It continues repairing damage until it's gone." He stared at me. "Do you understand how incredibly significant that is?"
"I guess not," I said.
"Harry, that's probably why people age to begin with," he said. "Your body is a big collection of cells, right? Most of them get damaged or wear out and die. Your body replaces them. It's a continual process. But the thing is, every time the body makes a replacement, it's a little less perfect than the one that came before it."
"That copy-of-a-copy thing," I said. "I've heard about that, yeah."
"Right," Butters said. "That's how you're able to heal these injuries. It's why you have the potential to live so long. Your copies are perfect. Or at least a hell of a lot closer to it than most folks."
I blinked. "You're saying I can heal any injury?"
"Well," he said, "Not like mutant X-factor healing. If someone cuts an artery, you're gonna bleed out. But if you survive it, given enough time your body seems to be able to replace things almost perfectly. It might take you months, even several years, but you can get better when other people wouldn't."
I looked at him, and then at my gloved hand. I tried to talk, but my throat wouldn't work.
"Yeah," the little doctor said quietly. "I think you're going to get your hand back at some point. It didn't mortify or come off. There's still living muscle tissue there. Given enough time, I think you'll be able to replace scar tissue and regrow the nerves."
"That..." I said, and choked up. I swallowed. "That would be nice."
"We can help it along, I think," Butters said. "Physical therapy. I was going to talk to you about it next visit. We can go over it then."
"Butters," I said. "Uh. Wow, man. This is..."
"Really exciting," he said, eyes gleaming.
"I was going to say amazing," I said quietly. "And then I was going to say thank-you."
He grinned and twitched a shoulder in a shrug. "I calls them like I see them."
I stared down at my hand and tried to twiddle my fingers. They sort of twitched. "Why?" I asked.
"Why what?"
"Why am I able to make good copies?"
He blew out a breath and pushed his hand through his wiry hair, grinning. "I have no freaking clue. Neat, huh?"


Dead Beat Chapter 4, Page 36-38