By Enola Jones

Ezra glared.

There was nothing they could do. Nothing they could have done. The bust had gone badly, and that was all there was to it.

But now he glared at them. He hated what the effects of the bust had done to him.

They hated it too. What made it worse was it was such a senseless, needless thing to happen.

Ezra had ducked. He had rolled. He had done everything right – but he had slipped and fallen in a pool of blood and had taken a graze to the head.

The irony of it was it was friendly fire – from Team Three.

And now… Ezra felt like a prisoner in his own body. He had so many beautiful words, so many expressive ways of saying things….

And now they were gone.

All the words were gone.

The wound had left Ezra with aphasia. He could still understand the written word and – miraculously – sign language. He could understand words spoken to him – so long as he was looking at the person talking to him and could read their lips as well.

But Ezra could no longer speak well. He had extreme difficulty just stringing together a simple sentence.

And it absolutely galled him that it happened to him through such a needless accident.

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