The doctor slowly tore the top sheet off his clipboard, crumpled it, and dropped it in the trash. He pulled up a chair beside the piano.
“Bathing?”
Hiro’s eyes crinkled. “With my right hand? I can spear a meatball. But cutting the meatball? That’s a two-man job.” He gestured to his paralyzed side. “My partner here is on strike.” barthel indeks