Sobbing, he turned his head and vomited onto the frozen snow. Blood dripped from his face into the vomit.
“Nooooo!” he cried, and the sound disappeared into the empty landscape, into the wind.
Then, suddenly, he was in the Annex room again, writhing on the bed. His face was wet with tears.
Able to move now, he rocked his own body back and forth, breathing deeply to release the remembered pain.
He sat, and looked at his own leg, where it lay straight on the bed, unbroken. The brutal slice of pain was gone.
But the leg ached horribly, still, and his face felt raw. “May I have relief-of-pain, please?” he begged.
It was always provided in his everyday life for the bruises and wounds, for a mashed finger, a stomach ache, a skinned knee from a fall from a bike.
There was always a daub of anesthetic ointment, or a pill; or in severe instances, an injection that brought complete and instantaneous deliverance.
But The Giver said no, and looked away. Limping, Jonas walked home, pushing his bicycle, that evening.
The sunburn pain had been so small, in comparison, and had not stayed with him. But this ache lingered.
It was not unendurable, as the pain on the hill had been. Jonas tried to be brave.
He remembered that the Chief Elder had said he was brave. “Is something wrong, Jonas?” his father asked at the evening meal.
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