I watch the boy across the street ride his skateboard. He does a horrible job. Every day it’s the same thing. He rides it, very slowly and cautiously, down to the end of the driveway and stops. He kicks it around and maneuvers it with his feet.
I can’t take it anymore.
I stroll over to the boy and snatch the skateboard away.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” I say, even though I don’t have a clue as to how one rides a skateboard. Nevertheless, I put my all into it. I start way back at his garage and take off, full speed, for the road. I get to the end of the driveway and try to flip it back around so I’m facing the garage. Of course, something goes terribly awry.
I fall off and crack my head on the cement, losing consciousness for a few seconds.
I regain my vision. The boy is hovering over top of me.
“I’m in pretty bad shape,” I moan. “Maybe you should call the ambulance.”
“There’s no need for that,” the boy says. “I’m a doctor.”
“Knock it off. My skull feels cracked and I can’t move my left arm.”
“Really,” he says. “It’s no problem.”
He reaches down and pulls my head and arm from my body, tossing them nonchalantly to the side.
“Just hold on now,” he says, noticing my panic.
Within a few minutes, I have a fresh head and arm. I stand up. I feel great.
“That’s amazing,” I say. “How’d you do that?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Was it some kind of magic?”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he says. He picks the skateboard up from the road and rides it slowly back up to the garage. From the garage he calls, “You run on back home now.”
I do what he says.
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