Machine Man (serial)
In my third week at the hospital I was visited by the prosthetics specialist. She walked into my room with a bunch of artificial legs under each arm, like some kind of Hindu goddess. “Hi, Charlie.” She dumped the legs onto my bed and pushed her glasses up her nose. Her hair was brown and frizzy and dragged into a merciless pony-tail. Her white shirt was at least two sizes too big. There was no longer any danger of confusing her with a deity. “I hear you got a transfemoral. May I?” Before I could respond, she lifted up my sheet. “Oh, yeah. That’s a nice stump. Can I touch?”
Her fingers probed my blighted flesh. “Oh. Yes. Yes.” She dropped the sheet. “I have to confess, Charlie, I do prefer a transfemoral. We get a lot of transtibials—that’s below the knee—and, no offense to those people, but it’s like fitting shoes. There’s no art to it. This…” She patted my leg, the part I had left. “This gives us options.”
“I like options,” I said.
She smiled. “You and me, Charlie. We’re going to be friends.”