Copper Script

by K.J. Charles

“Prosthesis,” he reminded himself as much as Fowler. “Well. The thing is, they wouldn’t give me one for ages. I still had my right hand, and since all right-handers seem to be convinced that left-handers just do it for our own perverse entertainment, apparently I was barely disabled at all. And, in fairness, there were plenty of people in more need than me, but I didn’t ask to have my hand shot off and I do actually feel that the people responsible for the war should be responsible for the consequences. So I made a bit of a fuss and eventually got the hook affair, and it’s awful. I hate it. A hook, like the villain in that bloody play with the flying children.” “It’s not that bad. You wouldn’t take your eye out if you scratched your nose.” “It feels that bad when it’s strapped to me. And it’s not independent. It holds things adequately, but it’s a pain to open and close it, and it makes me feel ghastly. I don’t want it.” “No,” Fowler said. He was listening closely, a little frown between his brows. “I see that, but is there an alternative? If you can’t learn to write with your right hand—and I take your word on that—what else is there?” “A better prosthesis.” Joel didn’t usually talk about this, but then, people didn’t usually ask. “There’s a surgeon who’s developed an artificial hand with articulated fingers, operated by arm muscle movements. I’ve seen a film. Chaps using them to hold teacups, and drink from them. One of them takes a matchbox from his pocket, and a match ...