My arm hurt, but more, my chest ached. Not from the attack, from the accident-though I had lots of bruises from the events of the previous day, no question, and zero answers as to where those ugly black marks on my legs, torso and back came from. Though my encounter with the horse and being pushed into the stall likely accounted for some of the injuries.
No, this aching pain had nothing to do with the radial fracture of my ulna or the deep thrum of wounds that distracted enough I needed painkillers to dull the edges so I could function. Rather, the embedded agony I suffered came from the dark, silent front door, locked against me, with the "In Hiatus" sign taped haphazardly to the glass.
The Reading Reader Gazette was closed and I couldn't find Pamela Shard anywhere.