His shoulders jerked upward toward his ears in a violent shrug that had nothing to do with intent and everything to do with his nervous system short-circuiting.
His bowels, empty as they were, tried to cramp anyway — a dry, tearing contraction that felt like his guts were being wrung out by invisible fists — and he whimpered through his shattered teeth, a pathetic animal sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep and broken.
He tried to scrabble backward.
His legs wouldn't move. Or couldn't — the distinction had stopped mattering hours ago. Both knees were past the point where they could be asked to cooperate with anything; the patellae ground against each other like broken glass with every microscopic twitch.
His arms tried while his palms flattened against the ruined carpet behind him and he pushed, and his shattered fingers folded backward under his own weight with wet, meaty cracks, sending fresh lightning bolts of agony straight up his arms.
