I grimace, burying my face in a pillow. I am lying face down on the mattress of a double bed in a seedy (oops, “rustic”) cabin somewhere in the Back of Beyond in northern British Columbia, Canada. My bare feet protrude off the edge of the bed. My husband, scissors in hand, is bent over the bloody, blistered, oozing little domes that once were my heels. I try humming a tuneless little melody to drown out the SNICK-SNICK of the blades as he trims shreds of dead skin from the edges of today’s damage. And it all started with mud.
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