ABSTRACT
One foot in front of the other became a measure for him in those latter days, a mode to track progress. When he tried to set the crutches aside and move on his own, it looked first—and for a long while, weeks at least—more like a bridal march: step, together, step, together. But as he gradually became more stable on his feet, he was able to deviate from the dance, the “together” part of the move spaced more and more unevenly, so that it began to seem almost like a usual stride. Often his hip would bark and whine at him, still resolving into position, learning its place. And since he had tapered himself down off the pain meds, now taking only the bare minimum of the least invasive drugs, he could feel more of the strain, and came to know its eccentric twists and turns like an old route home. He was surprised to learn that movement and effort were not the only—or even the primary—rabble-rousers when it came to his pain; he would regularly feel the strain of having slept in one position, or having sat still for too long a time. If he stood without moving, testing and tweaking his balance, feeling the high arches of his feet pressing into the floor, he came to expect, after just a few moments, a particular kind of throb that would begin to swell on the outer edge of his hip, the most westerly point.
