Whenever I find myself yet again in the Fracture Clinic at St. Joe’s—or as I like to call it, the Break Room—I’m inevitably slotted right next to someone in worse shape than me. I might walk in with the simplest of cracks and nothing to set, but still they compel me to pass through their gory gallery of shattered bone, steel plates, and uncountable screws . . . a mere week or two in a cast and yet each visit guarantees some fresh horror. They must bring the worst x-rays out of storage just for me. Their greatest hits . . . and runs.
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