Dead Beat

"Therapy," Butters said. He’d been having me practice squeezing a squishy ball with my left hand, and, just as he’d predicted, I had slowly gained a little more control of it. "You’re going to learn to play."

"Uh, my hand doesn’t work that well," I said.

"Not yet," Butters replied. "But we’ll start slow like everything else, and you can work up to it. Just do the lessons. Look, there’s a book in the bottom of the case."

I opened the case and found a book entitled Guitar for Total Idiots, while Butters went on about tendons and metacarpal something-or-other and flexibility. I opened the book, but night had fallen and the fire was too low to let me read it. I absently waved a hand at the candles on the table beside the couch and muttered, "Flickum bicus." They puffed to light with a little whoosh of magic.

I stopped and blinked-first at the candles and then at my burned hand.

"What?" Butters asked.

"Nothing," I said, and opened the book to look over it. "You know, Butters, for a mortician you’re a pretty good healer."

"You think so?"

I glanced at the warm, steady flame of the candles and smiled. "Yeah."