On top of that the son of the man who essentially worked your father into his grave keeps following you around and giving your orders. Being the only doctor in the small town where you both live does not give him the right to issue orders about what you should or shouldn’t be doing! What is he thinking anyway? Your mother just fired the only help for the farm and she’s too busy to take care of everything. Someone needs to help.

Oh, but the prosthesis hurts. The phantom pains just kill when you’ve been on it too long and you’re still determined to use your childhood bedroom even if it is on the second floor and your mother has a perfectly good bed – and couch for that matter – right on the ground floor.