5
Mark worked until his arm ached like the devil. His head hurt, he was thirsty, and he needed to take another Vicodin. He didn't want to—painkillers made him loopy and sick to his stomach—but that was better than the fire burning in his arm.
"You just had to throw me, didn't you?" he asked his horse Samson. Samson snorted and pawed the ground, not the least bit sorry for unseating his rider.
Although Samson was young, he was usually an easy ride, but not when he ran into snakes. Mark hadn't even noticed the snake in their path before Samson had reared. Not expecting it, Mark had landed on his left arm, snapping the bone with a sickening cracking sound.
Mark had been stubborn, not believing he'd broken it. It was a sprain; it would heal on its own. Until the pain had gotten so bad that
