"Alright Kid!" He yelled, running with the train. "Throw me your case!"
Jack took a deep breath, held it, and lept. He impacted the earth much sooner than he anticipated. The loud crack came first, then the pain.
"Fuck!" he cried.
Hank rushed toward Jack, a disheveled mass on the gravel. Jack clutched his hand and rocked back and forth.
"Oh my god! Oh my fuck, holy..."
"What's wrong?" Hank demanded. "Can you move it?"
"No, I can't move it. Hank I can't move my fucking hand. My fucking hand!"
Hank threw down Jack's briefcase and knelt down. He began to rumage through it, flailing the contents with abandon. Through a winced face, Jack let out an unintelligible wail. Hank retrieved a black shirt from the briefcase and tore a thick strip from it.
"What are you..."
"Shut up. Don't worry about it. You'll be needing your hand lot more than you'll need this shirt."
Hank knelt by Jack and gingerly grabbed his wrist.
"Close your hand as much as you can."
His fingers more trembled than moved and remained stiff. He drew in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
"Well, it's broken, no doubt 'bout that," Hank said.
Jack let out a wimper.
"Aww hell, you'll be fine."
He wrapped the black shirt strip tightly around Jack's hand. Jack began to hyperventilate.
"Calm down, boy. You ain't dyin'. Haven't you ever broken a bone before?"
Jack shook his head fiercely.
"Jesus, what kinda childhood did you have?"
"Hank, this is my right hand. My writing hand. Hank," he pleaded.
"We'll, aint much we can do 'bout that now. Worry about that later. Right now, we need to get you a drink-nothing less than whiskey."
Jack nodded, less than convinced. There was a deep fear in the depths of his eyes.
