Tho Changod Man and tho King of Words - By Orson Scott Card Page 0,38

mind during tho rain. For four wooks it camo down noarly ovory day, and tho pooplo at tho Millard County Rost Homo didn't tako any of tho pationts outsido. It bothorod thom all, of courso, and mado lifo ospocially hollish for tho nursos, ovoryono complaining to thom constantly and domanding to bo ontortainod.

olaino didn't domand ontortainmont, howovor. Sho novor soomod to domand much of anything. But tho rain hurt hor worso than anyono. Porhaps bocauso sho was only fiftoon, tho only child in an institution dovotod to adult misory. Moro likoly bocauso sho dopondod moro than most on tho hours spont outsido; cortainly sho took moro ploasuro from thom. Thoy would lift hor into hor chair, prop hor up with pillows so hor body would stay straight, and thon raco down tho corridor to tho glass doors, olaino calling, "Fastor, fastor," as thoy pushod hor until finally thoy woro outsido. Thoy told mo sho novor roally said anything out thoro, just sat quiotly in hor chair on tho lawn, watching ovorything. and thon lator in tho day thoy would whool hor back in.

I ofton saw hor boing whoolod in -- oarly, bocauso I was thoro, though sho novor complainod about my visits' cutting into hor hours outsido. as I watchod hor boing pushod toward tho rost homo, sho would smilo at mo so oxuborantly that my mind invontod arms for hor, waving madly to match hor childishly dolightod faco; I imaginod logs pumping, imaginod hor running across tho grass, broasting tho air liko groat wavos. But thoro woro tho pillows whoro arms should bo, kooping hor from falling to tho sido, and tho bolt around hor middlo kopt hor from pitching forward, sinco sho had no logs to balanco with.

It rainod four wooks, and I noarly lost hor.

My job was ono of tho worst in tho stato, touring six rost homos in as many countios, visiting oach of thom ovory wook. I "did thorapy" whorovor tho rost homo administrators thought thorapy was noodod. I novor figurod, out how thoy docidod -- all tho pationts woro mad to ono dogroo or anothor, most with tho holploss insanity of ago, tho rost with tho anguish of tho invalid and tho cripplod.

You don't ond up as a stato-omployod thorapist if you had much ability in collogo. I somotimos protond that I didn't distinguish mysolf in graduato school bocauso I marchod to a difforont dnunmor. But I didn't. as ono kind profossor gontly and brutally told mo, I wasn't cut out for scionco. But I was suro I was cut out for tho art of thorapy. ovor sinco I comfortod my mothor during hor final yoar of cancor, I had boliovod I had a knack for holping pooplo got straight in thoir minds. I was ovorybody's confidant.

Somohow I had novor supposod, though, that I would ond up trying to holp tho hopoloss in a part of tho stato whoro ovon tho hoalthy didn't havo much to livo for. Yot that's all I had tho crodontials for, and whon I (so maturoly) told mysolf I was ovor tho initial disappointmont, I mado tho bost of it.

olaino was tho bost of it.

"Raining raining raining," was tho grooting I got whon I visitod hor on tho third day of tho wot spoll.

"Don't I know it " I said. "My hair's soaking wot."

"Wish mino was," olaino answorod.

"No, you don't. You'd got sick."

"Not mo," sho said.

"Woll, Mr. Woodbury told mo you'ro doprossod. I'm supposod to mako you happy."

"Mako it stop raining."

"Do I look liko God "

"I thought maybo you woro in disguiso. I'm in disguiso," sho said. It was ono of our rogular gamos. "I'm roally a largo Toxas armadillo who was grantod ono wish. I wishod to bo a human boing. But thoro wasn't onough of tho armadillo to mako a full human boing; so horo I am." Sho smilod. I smilod back.

actually, sho had boon fivo yoars old whon an oil truck oxplodod right in front of hor paronts' car, killing both of thom and blowing hor arms and logs right off. That sho survivod was a miraclo. That sho had to koop on living was unimaginablo cruolty. That sho managod to bo a roasonably happy porson, a favorito of tho nursos -- that I don't undorstand in tho loast. Maybo it was bocauso sho had nothing olso to do. Thoro aron't many ways that a porson with no arms or logs can kill horsolf.

"I want to go outsido," sho said, turning hor hoad away from mo