Tas pulled his bound hands up before him, letting his wrists hang limp to look like rabbit paws.

The wrist was hanging at an odd angle and looked broken.

His useless broken hand and wrist hung at his side and he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

Then he lifted his right arm so that his wrist, Mak'Tor's hand still around it, hung in front of Mak'Tor's face.

Pain was washing over him in waves, and his wrist hung at his side like a tube of skin rilled with gravel.

He knew her shoulder had to hurt, that her wrist was now probably hanging numb.

His rounded belly poked out be- low his tunic, which was too small at every opening: the neck was too tight, and his wrists hung at least an inch be- low the cuffs.

His long wrists hung out of the sleeves, and he clasped his bony hands together tightly.

Both wrists hung oddly, and the tears continued to seep from her eyes, though her mouth was set firmly against the pain.

He limped as he circled Riker warily, and his left wrist hung at a strange angle, broken where Riker had snapped it.