[ A month. That's a long time--Quentin has broken his arm before, but he was young, fooling around the park with Julia. They'd pretended they were the Chatwins and they were in Fillory, with towels as caps as they fought imaginary creatures. Quentin can barely remember the pain when he slipped and fell, but that cast had been brutal. ]

Yeah--I'm a Yankees fan, for the record. [ His dad was, at least, so by proxy so was he. He never really got the sports-as-bonding, opting instead to sit and read while the crowd around him cheered. Speaking of--]

So, uh, a month is going to seem like forever. I got you something to try to pass the time. [ Quentin figured his shoulder was at least messed up, it makes sense the poor kid's arm is, too. He puts his hand on his bag, tugging at the strap: he's going to reach into his bag. Is that okay? ]

Can I grab it?