He got back very little change from the ten pounds he gave the driver, and he realized that his lunch money for the rest of the week was gone. He didn’t care a bit. He was home. He winced as he reached for the change with his bad hand. “You okay, son?” asked the cabbie. “It’s just this,” said George, holding up his hand. The cabbie shrugged. George realized with a shudder of horror that the man couldn’t see the mark on his hand. “Looks okay. You sprain it or something?” George nodded. Of course the man couldn’t see the scar. There was no scar, not in the real world. This was, in some way he didn’t understand, all in his mind. He just wished his hand was not where all the pain still was. “Yeah. A sprain.” “Tiger Balm,” advised the cabbie. “You tell your mum to get you Tiger Balm. Works every time. G’night.” George stepped back as the cabbie drove off, and looked up at a modern apartment block wedged in the middle of a terrace of older buildings, like a gate-crasher at a party.
