Arm 10

A scared fifteen-year-old boy sat alone in a derelict garage, shaking.

Stupid!

Stupid!

The fossilized pile of toolboxes, car parts, bicycle chains, and assorted junk had collapsed on him. His arm was stuck, possibly broken. Elbows didn't extend like that, he was pretty sure.

He struggled to free himself. If he could just get his arm out, he could start putting the pile back together, and then maybe no one would get mad. He wasn't bleeding anywhere, so at least he had that going for him.

No blood. The rusty box shifted slightly. OK. One, two, three

what

He was free, sort of. The arm wasn't. Still no blood. Armando looked at the stump, growing and stretching into a new arm like toothpaste coming out of the tube.

He vomited at the sight of the fresh new arm, its freckled red skin blending into his own brown skin at the shoulder.

He threw food and toys and a picture of his family in a plastic grocery bag, and he ran. And he didn't stop.

He wasn't really free, back then. He had tried pulling the new arm off, crushing it, hacking it off. All it ever got him was a new arm and a little more desperation.