“Dislocated,” the doctor said briskly and slapped an X-ray up onto the viewer. “Nice and neat. Back in nice and neat too, but I doubt you remember that.”
“Nope,” Darren said. He’d passed out when Jenny, the training centre receptionist, had gone over a speed bump. He didn’t even remember arriving. He’d just woken up in a ward off A&E with his arm in a stiff, rubbery type of sling and his hand strapped to his collarbone, and a shame-faced Trev Buxton sitting by the bed.
“Give it a couple of weeks, take it easy, no getting jerked about by the arm,” the doctor said, and Trev reddened. “It should stay back in. The damage from your previous injury makes the joint susceptible generally, mind, so I’d keep it in the sling for a few days.”
“Okay,” Darren said. That was fine. They had classroom l
