The podiatrist, a large lipped fleshy man who looked like he was once a rugby prop, tutted at the underside of my toe as if it had personally offended him. Perhaps it had. His ears stood out indignantly.
"This toe" he announced, "is missing all of the skin underneath. You've taken it off." I looked, and he was right. My recent adventures in hobbling had all been for naught. Endurance at the price of precious, precious toe meat. I was suitably chastised, and helpfully held my toes apart while he applied the bandaging and iodine strips.
I caught the bus for most of the way home and hobbled slowly up Webb street, passed by a young man on methamphetamine who was having a pretend conversation into his cell phone about breaking some other young man's spine at his apartment. He eyed me nervously as he strode by to make sure I was listening. I was, but most of my attention was on the baby birds, who were singing their hearts out without pretense.
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