He stood from his seat, arms raised above his head; tennis ball tightly clenched in his right hand, and stretched until he felt his vertebrae pop twice. The intense sensation of relief left him a tad light headed. Placing the ball on the small reading table to his left, he sidled to where his clothes hung and ran his hands through the few outfits that lined the crossbar, stopping on the grey suit.
Work had started on the tenth day as the letter stated. He had limped into the hospital early that morning, his heart a chaotic mess, the pain in his left hind quarter from that ill executed celebratory jump felt almost as fresh as it did in the beginning; the sprained tendon had registered its predicament only when he sat on the toilet the next morning, no thanks to that name.
‘Banu!’
