Ican’t feel the front of my right foot.

That’s not entirely true. I can a little. That little being a dull ache and slight burning sensation, the kind that comes when you try to hold a snowball in your bare hand for too long or take too large a bite out of the freezer sorbet. In other words, a very comforting sensation that means nothing whatsoever is wrong.

I work to squash the ugly images in my mind. The ones of taut, plum-hued balloons that vaguely resemble toes, the ones of the weird, waxy-green surface that is skin turned cryodamaged scar tissue.

Running shoes maybe weren’t the best idea. Not for venturing above 14,000 feet for the first time in over three years. Especially not in October.

But I should be manifesting the outcome that I want. That of the gradual warming, which will

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