I brace myself before stepping down. I know that if I put all my weight on them, they might burst, but I have to move quickly to wash off the pee that stings the open sores. I walk on the outer sides of my feet so that my sores can avoid the carpet. I hobble slowly, steadying myself with every step—first with my bed, then my dresser, then the doorknob, then the wall in the hallway. The sensation of the squish as the wounds inevitably tear open is one I still remember vividly almost forty years later.
