#broken limb

xxx "Eyes on me! C'mon, keep those eyes on me."

Charlotte sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth and Ira looks up at her anxiously, his stomach turning when he sees the expression on her face.

"What?" he says.

"I'll do what I can, but it's a bad break, Ira."

For everyone's viewing pleasure...Harukawa your Dazai is the most beautiful man alive....and you're so right anon, he's on his own as far as healing goes lol Yosano can't help this man....re-breaking it and having to deal with months and months of healing and physical therapy he is absolutely not going back to walking on his own any time soon. mobility aids ⬆️⬆️⬆️⬆️

This was written by a prompt that @save-the-villainous-cat . I don’t have the picture of it, but this was what was said

“ Hero having to break the villain’s ankle so both can get out of a horrible situation ”

TW: implied limb breaking

——————————

“This was by FAR the dumbest plan we have EVER gone through with!” Villain shouted through the shaking corridors. “What the hell were we thinking?!”

“I don’t know!” Hero panted heavily. “Why did you provoke [Supervillain] like that?!”

“Oh I don’t know!! Maybe because I don’t want you to get killed?!”

The two stopped at an intersection but before either could think of where to go or what to say, new loud voices called for the duo from further behind them. Supervillains guards, they had to guess.

Hero took the initiative to grab Villain by the hand and make a sudden choice. They had no time for planning. Only running.

Being aware of their pursuers presence did NOT help with their situation. The rumbling of their surroundings just worsened with new cracks forming on the walls and ceiling. It was icing on the horrible cake that was the Hero and Villain’s plan.

Was Supervillain really so willing to let their lair collapse like this— no, make their lair collapse like this??

“Where the hell is the exi— !!!” The Villain suddenly tripped and fell, but before they could move to get back up the wall next to them suddenly caved. Pinning their leg firmly in place against the ground.

“[Villain]!” Hero stopped in a panic. They could have kept running and left the criminal behind. They could have waited to let Villain deal with this themselves, (and clearly that wasn’t working). So why didn’t they run? Why did they not want to run? Why is it that this villain above all villains is special to the Hero? They didn’t know, and they didn’t have time to ponder about it. They had to help.

“[Hero]! Just— just go! I can do this myself!” Villain struggled to free their leg. It seemed the more they moved the more stuck they got. Shoot.

“[Villain], no!” The Hero retorted, “The guards are closing in on us and I am NOT leaving you!” They got down to try and push the rubble off the other’s leg.

“No, [Hero] you go! Are you trying to get us both killed?!” The Villain protested, but despite their words they tried to free their leg with the hero’s help.

The walls around them continued to crumble while the loud thumping noises of the guards echoed through the halls. It was honestly terrifying for the duo, but what probably scared them more was how Villain’s leg barely made progress.

Hero had to make a choice and they had to do it quickly. It felt like at any moment something was going to crash in on or catch them. So using their abilities, the crime stopper made an attempt to hold off the guards and keep the ceiling up whilst trying to free the Villain.

Both were beginning to get desperate the longer it took. Taking other approaches at freeing the encased limb, but nothing worked. How heavy were these bricks?! Or maybe the Villain and Hero were too weak?? No. Surely this had something to do with Supervillain. Whatever it was it was proving to be a fruitless fight.

“[V—Villain]!” Hero suddenly shouted over all of the ruckus, “I- I think we may have to go with a different option to free you!”

“What other options are there??” The Villain hissed, “brute force??”

Without saying yes or no, Hero began to shift into a different position. One that had a good hold over the hall’s captive. One that would be ready to pull.

“I’m so sorry! But we have no other choice!!” Hero finally explained.

The Villain’s eyes widened, it seemed to click how serious the crime-stopper was as they attempted to perfect the position for the most optimal escape.

The Villain shook their head slowly, “No… no. no [Hero] you can’t do that I— can’t we just keep trying to push the stuff off?! O—or why can’t you use your powers or something?!”

“Because I’m trying to stop the building from collapsing and keeping the guards away!” Hero cried, “We have no other choice! I’m so sorry!!”

“[HERO]!” Villain began to beg, “PLEASE! J— JUST LEAVE ME!”

Hero had never seen Villain so desperate. Sure, the two had given each other plenty of hard hitters in the past. Hits that left scars that told the story without even a need to speak. Meanwhile some remained a simple memory within their mind.

Usually the Villain appeared indifferent when it came to injuries, like they weren’t afraid to draw a little blood whether it was their own or someone else’s. They saw it as something that was an inevitable piece to their villainous job. So why is this different now? Is it because they aren’t in battle?

The Hero didn’t know, but now wasn’t the time to care. That would happen later, so until then the Hero pulled.

Villain gasped at the sudden pull and the rubble began shifting, freeing most of their leg aside from the ankle and foot. They squirmed in Hero’s grasp, shouting things at them that Hero paid no mind to.

They pulled again. Harder this time. Villain continued to yell over the already loud environment, pleading for the Hero to leave them. The building was going down and the Hero’s barricade to block Supervillain’s guards was wearing off.

“[HERO]!” The Villain shouted again, their voice going hoarse from how loud they had to get just to try and speak to someone who was right next to them. “YOU CAN’T! STOP!! PLEASE!!!”

Hero shook their head, tightening their grip onto the horrified criminal, “I'M SORRY!”

The Hero pulled for one last time as hard as they could. Then there was a shift followed by a loud crack.

The Villains cries were almost as loud as the self-destructing halls.

Almost as loud.

——————————

“F-FUCK!”

Rearing their head back, Whumper A cried out in pain as their muscles involuntarily shifted across their now bulging wrist. The bone underneath almost piercing the skin it’s supposed to be protected by.

“Shh. It’s alright Whumper A, I know it hurts, but you gotta let me help!”

Searing pain traveling up their arm, Whumper A couldn’t help but yelp again and try to flee from the pain. Of course, because of that, Whumper A’s arm swung wide away from Whumper B’s grip and grazed an object nearby.

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Broken Limb

Summary: An AU in which Penelope lives on a farm, and Gordon is her farmhand. (Gordon + Broken Limb)

oops I've made another AU. In this, Penelope's father bought a farm in Kansas and they moved there from England when Penelope was very young. Jeff was employed to work on the farm, and the boys went to work there as well once they were old enough. They're not rich (lady p still is tho), International Rescue doesn't exist, but Lucille still died when the boys were young. Gordon and Penelope are in their early 20s when this is set.

As the taxi drove up the lane, Penelope took in the familiar farmland around her, and she let out a sigh of content. She was finally home.

The journey back from university was a long one, and the sight of the farmhouse that the taxi was approaching was welcomed greatly. Along the lane, she passed by where the old stables used to be, before they'd burnt down. The space was now empty, and there wasn't a trace of the building left.

Her heart ached at the thought, but she knew that a new one was already in the process of being built. She was looking forward to seeing it now she was home.

When the taxi stopped outside the house, Penelope stepped out of the vehicle and stretched. From the plane to the taxi back from the airport, she had been sitting for a while and her limbs ached for movement.

"Penelope!"

Penelope looked up to see her father standing outside the house. He seemed to be in the middle of a conversation with the man next to him, but upon seeing her arrive, he left the man's side and came over to her.

"I'm so glad you made it back alright. How was the flight?" He pulled her into a hug.

"Hello, father." She returned the hug, glad that she could finally see him. It had been months since she'd last come home. "The flight was well, however a bit long."

"I bet you're glad to be done with travelling for a while then," the man who her father had been speaking to came over.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21005795

@whumptober2019 @badthingshappenbingo

It’s amazing how quickly things can go wrong.

One moment, you’re walking around, looting the corpses of your enemies. It’s not your fault they’re dead of course, those damn O’Driscolls wouldn’t back down and you’d had to kill them in self defense, and there was no point in leaving useful supplies to rot.

And the next, the ground is giving out beneath your son.

“Dutch,”

“Dutch!”

His hand had been in an O’Driscoll’s coat pocket, and he straightens up so suddenly that the corpse comes with him, the pocket ripping free and sending it thudding back to the ground. The alarm in Hosea’s voice, the fear in Arthur’s voice, already has his heart in his throat as he turns to look, dreading what he’ll see.

Arthur is near the edge of the cliff, surrounded by O’Driscoll corpses, eyes wide, hands up as though he’s at gunpoint. The way he has his legs spread would be funny at any other time, but the ground at the edge is crumbling away and, even from where Dutch stands, he can see the dry dirt beginning to crack. Hosea is wide eyed, body coiled, clearly wanting to step forward and help but fearful of putting any more weight on the ground, afraid that he will cause it to give way.

And Dutch… Dutch doesn’t know what to do. Everything screams at him to walk forward and grab Arthur, but that’s the absolute worst thing he could do then.

“Arthur, son,” his mind races, unable to break eye contact, his boy’s eyes wild and pleading as he looks at him, suddenly looking like the young street rat they took in so long ago, “step forward, slowly.”

Hosea shoots him a look: ‘What are you doing?!’ but he doesn’t have a better idea, so he turns back to Arthur, clenching his hands helplessly as Arthur, looking as uncertain as Dutch feels, begins to slide one of his feet forward, scuffing the dirt

the ground beneath his heel, the one that hadn’t moved but was taking just that little bit more of his weight, began to shatter, and he froze.

“Arthur, don’t move son,” Dutch tried to keep his panic out of his voice, finding himself without a plan. They needed to get Arthur away from the ledge, but every shift of his weight had the ground cracking more and more. He looked at Hosea, then Arthur, then at Hosea again, beginning to get an idea. Did he have his…? Dropping his hand to his hip, he felt the familiar, coarse rope, and thanked god that he hadn’t left it on The Count like he so often did.

He unraveled it from his waist, carefully making the loop as large as he could, vaguely seeing Hosea looking at him appraisingly. Dutch had never been as good as Arthur, or even Hosea, when it came to roping, but this was not a throw he could miss. “Put this around your waist, son, as tight as you can.”

Heart in his throat, he brought the lasso up and began to swing it above his head, hearing it woosh, gathering as much momentum as he could. He couldn’t miss this throw, he could not miss this throw, he could not miss this throw,

he threw the lasso

and Arthur caught it.

‘Oh, thank god.’ Carefully, he began to edge towards Hosea as Arthur put the loop around his waist, tightening it as much as he could, knowing it was only just a fail-safe and praying they could get him off the cliff before it became necessary.

Dutch offered the end of the rope to Hosea, keeping a tight grip just a bit up, and the man hurried to grab it, winding it around his hand. “Alright, son,” Hosea’s voice shook, but he tried to put on a reassuring grin, “start walking towards us.” They braced themselves, digging their boots into the ground and grasping the rope so tight that it dug into their skin.

Arthur looked at them, eyes darting from Dutch’s to Hosea’s and back, and they gave him the best reassuring grins they could, although they knew their worry was obvious. Even still, though, he had endless amounts of faith in the both of them and, so, began to sidle forward, one painfully slow sliding step after the other.

“You’ve got it, son,” Hosea murmured,

“Just a bit further,” and it was a damned lie, but it seemed to settle some of his nerves, so Dutch continued to coax him on.

In the end, though, he only managed five steps.

There was an awful rumble, like far away thunder, and they all froze, Dutch breaking free first. “ARTHUR, MOVE!” Without a second thought, Arthur began to bolt forward, and for once Hosea was grateful for the boy’s blind loyalty, but he wasn’t fast enough, stumbling over the corpses

the ground dropped out from beneath him in a solid chunk, like a dropped plate, and their son vanished from view.

“Arthur!” They gasped, voices covered by Arthur’s blood-chilling scream, but already they were digging the heels of their boots into the ground, leaning back and grasping onto the rope as tightly as they could, bracing for the inevitable abrupt yank.

They were almost pulled off their feet from the force of his weight hitting the end of the rope, scream cutting off as the breath was knocked from his lungs. It took all they had to keep from dropping the rope as it tore through their hands, ripping flesh and burning what it didn’t cut, but they didn’t dare let go.

And then the rope jerked again, and they staggered back as there was no longer any tension on the rope, no weight to brace against.

There was a horrible scream, somehow worse than before, that cut off abruptly with an awful thud.

“Oh, God!”

Hosea’s voice was oddly distorted, the world falling away from him, heart stopping in his chest.

“Oh, God, no!”

Only vaguely aware of Hosea, of his bleeding hands as he ran forward, legs oddly weak, knees buckling with each step, still clinging to the blood-soaked lasso, dropping to his knees at the edge of the cliff, sturdy as ever, the loose dirt having fallen away along with a number of corpses and their son.

“God, please.”

He was terrified to look over the edge, but he needed to know. Hosea was stumbling up behind him, uncaring of the pain in his knees as they popped, dropping to them and staining the ground with his blood as he braced himself on his palms.

Dutch gulped, and they shared a look—what would they see?

Their son, shattered on the ground? Bones broken limbs twisted impossibly? In a pool of blood, twitching, trying to curl in on himself as he suffered?

Or gone, out of sight, having fallen away into the bushes, the crags, where they couldn’t find him? Could only find streaks of blood, left to rot, his remains carried away by vultures and crows, pumas and whatever else got to them down there?

What he saw… well, it wasn’t good. But it wasn’t half so awful as he’d been imagining and, from the way Hosea sighed, he knew Hosea felt the same.

The boy was half curled on himself, a pool of blood slowly growing around his head. His arm under his head was visibly broken, even from where they knelt, but not twisted, not mangled beyond repair. And, from the looks of it, his other limbs were whole, but it was impossible to tell for sure.

“Arthur?”

Hosea called, but the boy didn’t respond.

Dutch’s heart leaped to his throat, “Arthur, son, can you hear us?”

Arthur didn’t respond, didn’t say a word. But… was he imagining it, or had his chest twitched? It looked like he was breathing, or was that his desperation making him see things that weren’t there?

“I’m going down there,” Dutch announced, and stood, wiping his hands off on his pants, dropping the rope that he hadn’t realized he was still holding. His hands stung, and left streaks of blood on the fabric, but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Hosea stood as well, bones audibly popping, telling him to “Wait, Dutch,”

Dutch whirled on him, baring his teeth in a snarl, “Wait?! I’m not going to wait while our boy could be dying!”

Hosea held his palms up placatingly, seeming not to notice the blood dripping to the ground, saying “Dutch, you can’t just climb down there, you’ll fall. Let me get my lasso, I’ll support you.” He didn’t wait for Dutch to answer, whistling for Silver Dollar, having sent the horse off to keep it from getting shot in the scuffle.

Dutch scowled, pacing in irritation, “Hosea-!” but the horse was already skidding to a stop, and Hosea was grabbing his lasso from the saddle, widening the loop and offering it to Dutch, taking a moment to slip his gloves on to protect his hands from any further damage, fearing dropping the rope.

The man all-but tore the noose from Hosea’s hands, hurrying to pull it over his head and fasten it around his waist, while Hosea tied the end to Silver Dollar’s saddle horn—the horse was much, much stronger than he was. “Alright, Dutch,” he said, and Dutch didn’t say a word, approaching the ledge, twisting and beginning to climb down, carefully picking hand-holds, Hosea feeding the rope slowly as he went, keeping a close eye on Silver Dollar.

Dutch hurried down the cliff-side, “I’m coming, Arthur, I’ve got you, son,” offering pointless platitudes that their boy might not even be hearing, but they made him feel better, helped him focus on something else other than his awful silence. Hosea was silent, listening for the ground, preparing to brace himself if it sounded like the cliff would give out again.

Finally, Dutch’s feet hit the ground, and Hosea wrapped the rest of the rope around Silver Dollar’s saddlehorn, giving him just enough slack to maneuver on the ledge. From here, thank god, he could see Arthur’s side rising and falling with rapid breaths, and he asked, “Arthur?”

The boy didn’t respond, and his heart raced in his ears. ‘Please, god, don’t take my son.’ Fighting the urge to run, fearing he’d lose his balance and fall off the ledge, he hurried to Arthur’s side, kneeling in front of him, trying to to ignore Arthur’s blood that stained his pants.

“Arthur?” he asked, running his fingers carefully through his hair, tangled and matted with blood, coming away tacky, “Son, please, can you hear me?”

Arthur’s eyes twitched, and his own burned suspiciously. He continued to run his fingers soothingly through his hair, making sure to stay well away from the side near the ground, not wanting to cause his boy any more pain than he was already in—”’tch?”

Dutch brought his free hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, waving up at Hosea without looking away from Arthur; their son was alive! He was hurt, but he was moving and awake and talking! “It’s okay, Arthur, it’s okay.”

His eyes opened slowly, staring blankly up at Dutch, not registering him, and Dutch’s chest ached. His right pupil was blown so wide there was only the slightest ring of grey-glazed blue, and his left had shrunk so small that it was barely visible in the pool of out of place gray. The color was far too dull for his boy, and he knew without a doubt the boy had a horrible concussion, one that needed a real doctor to be treated, not Hosea or Susan or Herr Strauss.

“D’tch?” he asked again, and the man tried to smile, tried to reassure him, but could feel how tense his face was, how his smile was too stiff, bared a few too many teeth, hoped that Arthur didn’t notice.

“It’s me son, I’ve got you. I won’t let you go.” the boy shifted, tried to get his arms under him, cried out in pain, and he abandoned his soothing tone to bark “Don’t move!” Arthur looked so betrayed, so confused, not understanding why he was being yelled at, but obeyed, slumping back to the ground, whimpering as he shifted his shattered arm.

“S’rry.”

He lowered his voice again, softened it, felt bad for yelling, knew Arthur couldn’t comprehend the consequences of his actions, but he’d been so worried that Arthur would hurt himself further, ruin his arm beyond repair, that he’d acted without thinking, “Don’t apologize. Just… don’t move, son. You’re… you’re pretty messed up.”

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, licking his lips, shifted and groaned, stilled. “M’sssed up? What’d… how?”

He didn’t… he didn’t remember? Shit, his concussion was worse than he thought. They needed a doctor, they needed a doctor five minutes ago. “You fell, son. Don’t worry about it, just relax. I won’t let you go.”

Arthur turned his head to look at him, and Dutch grimaced, not liking how often his neck was unsupported, how much Arthur was moving his head, said again “Don’t move, son,” keeping the bite out of his tone.

This was a bad idea, but if it kept Arthur from moving his head, then surely it was okay? It would prevent any more damage, at least. As carefully as he could, murmuring an apology when Arthur cried out in pain, he wrapped his arms around his torso, cradled him and held him like he had little Jack when he was an infant, setting him in his lap as gently as he could. “Rest your head, son. Don’t move, alright?”

Arthur blinked up at him blearily, but managed, “Y-yeahhh, D’tch.” he relaxed onto his thigh, a comforting, warm weight, if he ignored the stickiness quickly soaking through his pants. There was a sudden gasp, and he looked down at Arthur, asking, alarmed,

“What’s wrong?”

Had he missed something? A wound on his head, a different one than the one that was still bleeding? He had been trying not to jostle Arthur as he dug for his handkerchief, but stopped.

“Arrrrm,” he managed, and Dutch could have slapped himself.

“Sorry, son, I’m so sorry,” he wrapped an arm around his head to hold him still as he carefully, as carefully as he could, chanting apologies as Arthur whimpered, adjusting his broken arm to keep as much weight off of it as he could. How could he have forgotten?

Finally getting the arm adjusted, he sat back, running his fingers through Arthur’s hair again, waiting for a moment before reaching for his handkerchief, not wanting to cause him any pain.

“Dutch!”

Hosea’s voice caught his attention, and he looked up to see the man peering over the side of the cliff. From the tone of his voice, and how loud he’d raised it, it was obvious that he’d been calling to him for some time. He waved to show that he’d heard him.

“I’m going to get a doctor, stay with him!”

‘Stay with him,’ he said. Like Dutch would leave him! But he threw him a thumbs-up, not wanting to shout next to Arthur’s ear, knowing he had to have the headache to end all headaches, still scratching his hair with his other hand.

Hosea nodded, backing away from the edge of the cliff. He unwound the rope from the saddle horn carefully, making sure to keep a good grip on it, walking over and fastening it tightly around the healthiest, sturdiest tree trunk he could find. Bracing his foot on the tree, he yanked on it abruptly, over and over, until he was finally satisfied that it would hold Dutch and Arthur if their ledge gave way, god forbid.

Mounting up, he looked back at the cliff, not wanting to leave them but knowing Arthur desperately needed a doctor. The nearest town was nearly an hours’ ride, and if he pushed Silver Dollar as hard as he could he was certain he could make it in half that. Digging his spurs into the horse’s sides, they exploded into a gallop with a startled scream.

Dutch sighed, looking back at Arthur. His heart dropped into his stomach when he found the boy’s eyes closed, face slack. “Hey, hey, Arthur, son.” He dropped his hand down to tap at his cheek, breathing a sigh of relief when grey-blue eyes opened into slits. 

“T’red,” Arthur complained, and Dutch attempted an apologetic grin, continuing to stroke his hair, reaching and finally managing to fumble loose his handkerchief,

“I know, son, I know. But you can’t fall asleep, not yet. Just stay with me, please, son, stay with me.” he pleaded, watching as Arthur’s eyes fluttered, carefully holding his neck as still as he could as he raised the man up just a little, slipping his hand beneath his head and his leg to press the handkerchief against the gaping wound.

Arthur choked, tears dripping down his face as the wound burned with pain, and Dutch murmured, “Sorry, son, I’m so sorry,” but he couldn’t help but to be relieved, the boy seeming more awake now. “Just… just stay with me. You can rest soon, but stay awake with me for just a little longer.”

The position was horribly uncomfortable. Arthur was heavy in his lap, and he couldn’t lean back, one hand crushed between his heavy head and his thigh, quickly going numb, the other aching with the repetitive motion of stroking his hair. But Arthur was alive, and he couldn’t find it in him to care, too glad to be able to sit there and watch his chest rise and fall, see him blink and hear him breathe, and his chest tightened when Arthur sighed, burrowing into his hand, curling into him like he used to when he was younger.

When had he stopped seeing Arthur as his son? When had Arthur become just another member of the gang, just a workhorse? What had happened to the teenager they’d taken in, that had become nothing shy of family? That he loved more than anything, even more than Hosea?

“L’ve you, D’tch.” he murmured, blinking blearily.

He had a lot to make up for when Arthur was better. Arthur was going to get time off, time to rest. The others were going to start working, start taking some of the strain off of Arthur’s shoulders, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

This is Woden(Odin).

Woden was found in the nearby town of  ██████ ████. When he was found, his back legs were torn into, like another animal had been aggressively biting him. He had numerous scabs. But, perhaps, the most upsetting injury he had, was that his front right leg had a closed fracture just a little ways above the wrist-joint.

The group that rescued him did not have the space to take him in, nor the ability to take care of him. So, they transferred him to  ███ ███████ animal shelter, and agreed to cover his medical expenses, if he was sent to  ███ ███████ Veterinary Clinic, where my roommate works. There, he recieved treatment, had his leg properly splinted, and wrapped, to help aid in the healing process.

At first, I was only going to Foster home him, because I wanted to take this pooch home, and give him a forever home. I wanted to foster him until he was better, then adopt, and keep him, because I was under the impression that he couldn’t be adopted until he was fully healed. However, Animal Services alerted me that he was immediately up for adoption, with the promise that all of his medical needs, for the existing condition, would be paid until full recovery. That was the agreement that the rescue made, when they brought him in.

However,  █████ of ██████ ████ disavowed him. When I signed the papers to give Odin a home, they disavowed their promise to cover his medical for the fracture, and unloaded full responsibility on me. Perhaps I should have expected this, but I did not.

When I got him, I knew he needed to be kenneled, so that he could heal, and rest. So, I bought him an appropriately sized crate, and a harness for future needs. This, on top of the 92$ adoption/neuter/etc fee, exhausted my entire 300$ budget for the month, and left me high and dry. But, I had been told that I wouldn’t have to pay for a damn thing regarding his leg, so everything was going to be fine, right?

Unfortunately, things only get worse. While I was out and about this morning, taking my roommate to work, and picking up a coworker, Woden had somehow managed to slip his entire leg out of the wrapping, and splint, leaving his fracture completely unguarded, and unsupported. Likely, undoing all of the healing process he’s made in the last week. I had to make an emergency rush to the vet, to get his leg re-splinted.

I cannot afford to pay for this medical bill, that I was previously under the impression I would not have to pay for. Nor, any of the future wrappings. I feel like I was lied to, and like I was manipulated into taking full responsibility of the dog, despite my financial situation.

My only option is to refund the crate, and potentially, the harness, too. But it won’t be enough. I desperately need help. Woden needs your help. Woden immediately bonded with me, and I love him dearly, we’ve become very close in this last week. I wanted a dog to assist with my mental health needs, and he’s become attached to me, there’s no way I could justify giving him back, now.

https://www.paypal.com/paypalme2/allonsk/

I’m working on setting up other means of donation, but I want to do this in a way that doesn’t expose anyone’s identity, in respect for everyone’s privacy.

Even if you can’t help, if you can’t send even a single dollar, please please PLEASE PLEASE spread this message. I’m desperate to take care of my boy.