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For the first time in too many days, Marc Fucarile has shaved. He’s wisecracking with his doctor. His fiancee sits next to him in the reclining chair that doubles as her hospital sleeping quarters. The rest of his family crowds around, leaning close to his damaged ears so he can hear better, but taking care not to brush against what they call his “good leg.”
The “good leg” is good in this way: It’s not the right leg. The Marathon bombing sheared off that leg in a millisecond. It spared the left, but not by much. The blasts broke his foot in too many places to count. Second and third degree burns burrowed deeply into the leg.
Doctors have made no promises that the good leg can be saved.