What About Bob? The RED Flight Panel
I’ve got this friend—let’s call him Bob. We recently caught up at a fast-food joint, the kind that smells like grease, nostalgia, and regret. (It was his choice, not mine.) This is a reenactment. That's not Bob and I Bob : (holding up a deformed left middle finger) “I think I dislocated my finger playing hoops the other day.” Me : “Holy crap, it does look weird. Did you get it checked out by a doctor?” Bob : “For what? I just put a bandage on it, iced it, and popped some ibuprofen. It'll heal itself.” Me : (thinking Seriously? ) “Wild.” Bob : “Oh, and I once had a broken ankle. Didn’t find out until my annual health check-up. Also had two broken ribs that healed by themselves.” Me : “Wait, what? You walked around with broken ribs and a busted ankle and didn’t go to the hospital?” Bob : “Yeah, no big deal. It hurt like hell for a couple of weeks, but I got back to my usual—karate and even ran a half-marathon. Didn’t finish it, though.” Me : “Probably because of the broken ankle?...