The man had been limping for a week, ever since he stepped into a pothole near the park. When he walked his dog, he had to look every which way for unleased dogs. The sprain seemed simple enough. Ice pack. Rest. A steady routine of anti-inflammatory pills aided with ginger powder drink. The doctor had told him exactly that, he needed rest, ice, compression, and elevation. The man nodded in understanding, planning to follow the instructions completely.
But the ankle had its own plans.
Every morning it looked almost normal. The swelling faded after a night with his foot propped up on two pillows. By sunrise, he could believe it was healing. He could even walk around the kitchen without wincing. Chicken thawed, boiled, fed to Ben. Everything felt manageable.
Then the day happened.
By afternoon the ankle began to throb. By early evening it puffed up like rising dough. For a moment he would stare at it and mutter, “I should go back to the doctor.” He even reached for his keys once. But he had promised himself he would finish the course of medicine first. He had convinced himself that was the reasonable thing to do.
At night, he lay down, propped the ankle up, and waited for the swelling to retreat. It always did. It always tricked him. He would wake thinking, See? It’s getting better. Then the whole cycle began again.
One evening, as the ankle ballooned once more, the man sighed and sat on the edge of the couch. He felt the familiar tug inside him. One voice said, “Wait it out. Don’t make a fuss.” The other said, “You know this isn’t right.”
Both voices made sense. That was the problem.
He lifted his foot onto a pillow. The swelling pulsed, stubborn and hot. He stared at it and whispered, “I’ll see how it looks in the morning.” He had 2 days to go with the medicine.
Deep down, he already knew the morning would lie to him again.
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