#crutches

Brady kept the long toes moving while the three boys watched. He curled them, spread them, lifted the second one higher than the rest and held it there for a few seconds before letting it drop. Jake’s finger still rested lightly against the tip of that longest toe, following the motion without pressing hard.

Marcus finally looked up from the open end of the cast. “You got a marker?”

Brady glanced at his pack, still sitting where he’d dropped it. “Somewhere in there. Why?”

“We’re signing it,” Marcus said, like it was already decided. “Camo or not, you don’t leave camp without names on that thing.”

Jake nodded, still watching the toes flex under his finger. “Yeah. Gotta claim a spot before someone else does.”

Tyler was already digging through Brady’s pack. He came up with a thick black permanent marker and held it out. “Who goes first?”

Brady didn’t move the leg. He just kept the long toes shifting slowly against the dirt while the three of them crowded closer. Marcus took the marker and started near the top of the thigh, writing his name in big block letters across the green-and-brown pattern. Jake waited his turn, still playing with the toes—pressing them gently one by one, watching them curl and straighten.

When Marcus finished, Jake took the marker but didn’t start writing right away. He gave the longest toe another slow stroke with his thumb first, then finally leaned over and signed lower down the shin. Tyler went last, claiming a spot closer to the ankle, right above where the fiberglass ended and the toes began.

The whole time, Brady’s toes never stopped moving. The boys signed with one hand and kept the other free to touch, poke, or just rest against the long pale toes that stuck out into the open air. Jake traced the length of the second toe with a fingertip while Tyler capped the marker. Marcus watched the toes spread wide again and muttered, “Still the best part.”

yo check out my cast rn it’s actually disgusting

this purple thing has been on my foot for forever and i literally have not cleaned it once. not even once. it’s all cracked and broken and the fiberglass is just peeling off everywhere like it’s falling apart on purpose. there’s dirt and sand stuck all over it and my toes are sticking out looking hella dirty like i’ve been walking through a construction site or something.

idk why people act like casts are supposed to stay nice and clean. mine looks like trash and i don’t even care. i just leave it like this and keep doing whatever.

Evan’s soccer game started like any other Saturday. He was running hard, chasing the ball, doing what he loves most. One awkward landing later and everything changed. The sudden pop, the sharp pain, the abrupt stop on the field.

That afternoon he was in the ER. The first photo captures those early hours — his foot carefully splinted and elevated, already looking a little defeated. X-rays confirmed the break. Doctors fitted him with the temporary setup and sent him home to rest.

A few days later the splint was gone, replaced by a bright blue cast and a pair of crutches. The second photo shows him at the science center shortly after, blue cast on full display, standing among the exhibits and asking question after question. Crutches and all, he still managed to make the trip.

Now the cast is part of his everyday routine. Evan is already back at school, navigating crowded hallways, classroom desks, and the lunch line with one leg out of commission. The crutches echo down the corridors. Friends sign the blue plaster. Teachers adjust seating. Everything takes a little longer than before.

Mick sat on the sun-warmed bench at the edge of the skatepark, his blue fiberglass cast stretched out in front of him like a bright, awkward sock. The park was busy for a Sunday afternoon. Wheels clacked against coping. Someone yelled as they landed a kickflip on the flatbar. The air smelled like hot asphalt, wax, and the faint rubber of grip tape. Mick’s right foot twitched inside the cast, muscle memory still trying to ollie even though the bones weren’t ready.

He watched his friends. Tyler was attempting a backside smith on the ledge for the third time. Fail. Fail. Then a clean lock-in and a smooth roll away. The usual cheers. Mick clapped once, then stopped, feeling stupid for making noise when he couldn’t follow it up with anything.

A shadow fell across the bench.

“You’re really just gonna sit here and rot?”

It was Jace. He dropped his board with a familiar clatter and sat down hard enough to bounce Mick’s cast.

“Doctor said six weeks minimum,” Mick muttered. “Maybe eight if I don’t stop trying to put weight on it.”

Jace looked at the blue cast, then at Mick’s face. “So you’re just gonna watch us land the stuff you invented?”

Mick shrugged. The motion felt small. “Not like I have a choice.”

Jace stood up, kicked his board into his hand, and pointed the nose at Mick’s chest. “Then coach. You’ve got the best eye in this whole park. Tell me why my feeble is still sketchy.”

Mick blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. And if you start moping again I’m drawing a dick on your cast while you’re not looking.”

Mick almost smiled. Almost.

He leaned forward, elbows on his good knee, and studied the way Jace set up for the next try. The weight distribution was off by half a second. The shoulders opened too early. Little things. The kind of things Mick used to feel in his own body before the concrete decided otherwise.

“You’re rushing the pop,” Mick said. “Wait until the nose is fully over the coping. And keep your front shoulder closed longer.”

Jace nodded, dropped in, and nailed it cleaner than before.

The afternoon stretched on. Mick’s voice got stronger. He called out lines, pointed out timing, laughed when someone ate shit in the most spectacular way possible. The blue cast stayed heavy and useless on the bench, but somehow it stopped feeling like the only thing that mattered.

When the sun started dropping and the park lights flickered on, Tyler rolled up and held out a black Sharpie.

“Your turn,” he said. “Write something good. Something that’ll make future Mick laugh when he sees it.”

Mick took the pen. For a second he just stared at the empty space near his ankle. Then he wrote, in careful block letters:

Still here. Still watching. Still better than you.

He capped the pen and looked out at the ramps, the rails, the kids still chasing the last light.

The ankle would heal. The board was waiting in the garage. And until then, the park still had a place for him—even if that place was a wooden bench and a bright blue cast that glowed under the floodlights like it was trying to be part of the scene.

Mick leaned back, crossed his arms, and kept watching.