As Harry reached out to save the last of the Medi-Rescue-Mission-Men, the figure swung beyond Harry’s grasp. They both lost their footing. The paramedic landed safely. But Harry hurtled backwards down the stairs.
His elbow hit the ground first. Then his shoulder. Then the rest. The pain was like fire.
“Poor Harry. Better soon,” said Aidan.
“Glug gloog,” said Bella.
“He’s very pale,” said Lillian.
“Storm in a teacup, if you ask me. The boy’s a regular fusspot,” said Uncle Harold as he hurried back upstairs with a sly smile.
Harry’s arm was out of shape. “Maybe we’d better not try to fix it ourselves this said time,” Patrick.
Lillian agreed. They should let the hospital sort it out.
Accident and Emergency was buzzing.
Victims from every type of home disaster were being treated.
A granny had knitted herself inside a stocking.
A baby had swallowed a jar of jellybeans.
A lollipop lady had caught her thumb in her jacket zip.
All were receiving chocolate drops and TLC.
Harry was the only patient with broken bones so the nurse was very pleased to be able to look after him.
“You choose your own colour for the plaster,” he told Harry. “And today’s special offers are nite-glo green or blood-and-thunder red.”
Harry didn’t care about colours. “I’ll take the red,” he said miserably.
So his arm was set in a heavy red cast.
Harry could hardly move it. It felt like a quite separate limb.
Back home, his life was no longer near-perfect. The two worst things were:
First: the pain.
Second: the not-being-able-to-do-anything-for-himself.
“I’m just useless,” said Harry.
“You can say that again!” chuckled Uncle Harold as he helped himself to the biggest baked potato on the dish.
All next day, Harry lay in the garden with the clumsy cast resting on the cat.
“I hardly slept a wink last night,” he moaned. “So there’s no point going to school tomorrow. I won’t be able to do anything.
I wish I was a Medi-Rescue-Mission-Man. Then I’d just click in a new arm.”
But Harry didn’t believe in magic. He knew wishes were just words.