Tage came into the office just now, fighting back tears and cradling his hand gingerly next to his chest.

“Oh!” I said.  “What happened?”

“I hurt my finger,” he said, and held out said digit for my inspection.  There was a small, red scratch on the middle knuckle of his left pinky finger, but it was nothing serious.

“I think you’re okay,” I told him.

“No, I can’t use it,” he said, resignation heavy in his voice.  “I have to do things that take only nine fingers.”