Two fingers of a left hand are mending, after they unsuccessfully went one round with the pavement in London.
The little finger, still a swollen cocktail sausage, is recovering from an operation in which a pair of tiny divining rods were inserted into the bone to pull it back into line. Now, it snuggles close to the ring finger, its bigger and functioning sister, copying and sheltering.
But it's reverted to toddlerhood, learning to walk, to talk, to go to the park, to demand the swings.
Each day it sucks in its paunch, stiffens its stooped back to pull itself up to its full height, blend in with the crowd.
Each day it strives to work in community - to grow nails, tie a shoelace, open a tin, search out a spoon, hold an octave.
With its siblings, it has a go at making shapes. A gate. A rake. A limping dinosaur.
It struggles to fan outward into the kind of delta where a continent’s river system disgorges and over-wintering herons land.
And it religiously does the drill; to bow deeply forward in the belief that the top of its head can indeed touch the palm’s outstretched skin.