His skeleton kept growing, knitting together, turning his tendons and musles into bone. He became a knotted mass of spurs nd knobs and jagged, irregular shapes mocking symmetry, going against all of the hard work that went into evolving the humn form in the first place, forcing it to go to wild, painful extremes. What is it like to know you are freezing in place, that you are slowly turning to stone? To know you are doomed to become a statue, feeling yourself stiffen little by little, less and less able to make the smallest gesture?
My foot hurts, every step sending pain shooting through my body. I was on crutches for months, and then they made me new orthotics, and after all this time the pain is worse than ever. I fear I will need surgery and eventually lose the entire foot. I’m paralyzed with fear and resentment. And then I think of Harry, who could not even move his jaw to speak, who could not even hold a pencil in his fused-together fingers by the end. He could not articulate his horror, though I wonder, would it have done any good if he had been able to? What would it have helped?