Free Shadows Cast by Stars by Catherine Knutsson

the red vinyl seat and do my best not to move, but as my hair drifts around my shoulders in newlyshorn wisps, I can’t help myself. It tickles my neck, my ears, my arms. The old woman issues another warning and swats my ear. I try, I try. “I can’t help it,” I say. “It’s beyond my control.”
    She takes her shears and snips my earlobe. Blood courses down my neck .
    “Now you’ve done it,” she says .
    Shouting wakes me. I bolt upright and touch my ear. A sugar ant falls into my hand and without thinking I squish it under my thumb as I seek out the source of the commotion.
    Paul stands behind the far goal line, crowing, while Bran performs a celebratory war dance. Some of the boys join in, whooping and hopping as the other team huddles together in conference.
    The muskrat boy’s head pops out of the scrum. “Penalty on the play. No touchdown!”
    “Says you, lead-foot.” Paul tosses the football to Bran.
    The muskrat boy’s face screws into a scowl. “Whatever you say, apple.”
    Paul freezes. I can see he’s fighting himself, that he wants to walk away, but he can’t. Apple. Red on the outside, white on the inside. One of the worst insults an Other can throw. The muskrat boy thinks he’s gottenthe best of Paul and turns away, and that’s when Paul attacks him, taking him by surprise so they both fall to the ground. Bran jumps in, and by the time I’ve made it to my feet, all the boys are fighting, a swarm of fists and elbows.
    A man walking by shouts at them to stop. When he’s ignored, he dashes off and returns with two more men in tow.
    I run over and stare, helpless.
    “There’ll be no reasoning with them,” the tallest of the three men says to me. A scar runs down his face like a great, angry river. “Better cover your ears.” He puts his fingers to his lips and lets loose a piercing whistle. His two companions cross their arms and wait.
    The fight slows, and then stops. Bran emerges from the pile first, dragging a bloody-lipped but grinning Paul after him. The others stand and line up, beaten, bruised, and shamefaced. The worst off is a towheaded boy who cradles his limp right arm in his hand. I can tell it’s dislocated. Paul gives me a look that’s full of warning, demanding that I stay where I am. I hesitate, take a half-step forward, and then stop.
    I have tended wounds since I was old enough to stand. My mother was a nurse, and she passed what she knew along to me—or, as much as she could. I can suture awound as neatly as any physician. I could pop that arm back in place without a thought.
    The men take to lecturing the boys, but what they say, I don’t hear. If I do what instinct begs of me, word will spread. Even though I’m only sixteen, the Band will want to know why I’m not working for them, stitching up war wounds. But fate makes the decision for me. The boy’s face turns ashen and he drops to the ground like a felled tree.
    I am at his side in an instant, and I know, without looking, that the shadow hovering over me is Bran. “He’s all right,” I say, checking the boy’s breathing. “Bend his knees.” Bran does as I instruct. “His arm’s dislocated. I can put it back.” I glance over my shoulder at the scarred man, waiting for his permission.
    He nods. “Do what you can. His name is Adam.”
    Adam’s unconsciousness is a blessing. I pick up his lifeless arm, suck in a deep breath, brace myself, and give the limb a mighty tug and twist.
    His eyelids flutter open. He looks from Bran to me, turns his head, and vomits.
    Bran holds him up, waiting for him to finish, and then slips his belt off and hands it to me.
    “You’ve done this before,” I say as I fashion the belt into a makeshift sling.
    Bran shrugs.
    The scar-faced man points to two of the boys. “Carter, Jesse, take Adam to Madda.”
    “Thank you,” Adam says to me as they help him up. He’s blinking back tears. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back my own. Healing hurts. There’s no two ways