Grappling with Gangrene

The canvas of my cot smells like dirt. Throwing myself onto my back, I inhale and exhale methodically hoping for relief. My entire body aches for the second day in a row, and now it's getting worse. Every other hour or so someone climbs into my tent to ask how I am. This time it's him, the next time it's her. When someone else finally tosses back the flap of my tent, it's dark, and I haven't slept a wink.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks, I feel that way too."
"Y'know, Ben is coming to pick up Jake tomorrow morning. If you're not feeling better by then I say you head back into town to see a doctor."
Yesterday I would rather have stayed, but the realization is dawning on me that this isn't a simple flu from which I'll be recovering after a few hours' rest. "Yeah, that sounds good."
After turning back toward the dusk, he glances back at me, lifting an eyebrow in suspicion. "And you have NO idea what's making you sick? Are you absolutely positive you didn't eat something you shouldn't have?"
"No, no idea!" I declare.
But I do know.
During our first day here almost four days ago, I untied my shoe and turned to Steve, "I think I got a sliver in my foot when we were rock climbing earlier."
"A sliver? Where?"
Peeling off the sock, I twist my right foot up and over my other knee. "There. Do you see it?"
Grimacing in disgust, he replies, "Yeah. Does it hurt?"
"Yeah. It went straight in there, deep."
"Did you bring any tweezers?"
"No, but I did bring this."
Reaching for my Camelbak, I pull my Swiss Army knife out of its permanent home in a side pocket.
Steve asserts his suspicion with a face of skepticism, "You're just going to slice it out of your foot?"
Smiling like a confident fool, I nod.
The deed having been done the previous afternoon, I wake the next morning and begin to pull on some fresh socks. Setting my right foot on the ground, a surge of pain streaks through my leg. I flop down immediately on the cot and begin to examine the sole of my foot. Right in the center of the arch of my foot a grotesque green bubble is growing around the site of yesterday's excision. I sigh, thinking of the easy solution to problems of pus: drainage. Grabbing my handy knife again, I slice the bubble at its base and squeeze it until empty. Mopping up the mess with one of yesterday's dirty socks and clapping my hands together after a job well done, I take care to place a sterile band-aid over it and finish putting on my fresh socks.
On the morning of my premature departure, I can barely do anything. Glancing around to ensure that no one is looking, I pull my leg slowly toward my chest. As my throbbing knee bends, the sock encasing my infected foot comes into few. Its elastic fibers are straining visibly against the swollen skin. Rolling it down toward my ankle, delicately, softly, my ankle has disappeared. Where my ankle should be is a gray trunk of flesh. The dark skin of my foot reflects the ripples impressed into it by the just-removed sock as I cradle it in my hands. "Ah, crap. I'm an idiot," I grumble in frustration.
I lay my head despondently against the car window during the bumpy ride down. "You got all your stuff in the trunk, Dallin?" Ben asks.
"Yeah. I didn't really bring much."
My Camelbak bounces around on the floor between my feet with the should-have-been-disinfected Swiss Army knife in its pocket.
"Well, that was smart of you. We'll have you home soon."

Running Past 17th Street

The surf washes along the shore, just reaching my feet. The coolness enshrouds the sole of each foot, reminding me that it's getting too late to go running in.

"It's been a long day."

Glancing to my right, I ask what he means. 

"Oh, I dunno. Just after the drive and everything."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Still, it could have been worse."

"Uh huh." 

Standing in silence, he leans forward to grab a handful of small stones and begins tossing them into the waves. Picking up a few rocks for myself, I start chucking them out into the ocean too.

"You know, Port, you still throw like a girl."

Towering over me in stature, he moves his grizzled jaw only to laugh at me.

"Laugh all you want, I can still beat you up."

Finally he replies, "All right, see if you can throw a rock farther than this," and he hurls one out farther than I can hope to match.

Clutching a speckled stone in my hand, I nearly rip my arm out of place trying to get it past his mark.

Laughing again, he says, "What were you saying about being a girl?"

"You're blind, bro; mine must have gone at least twice as far as yours!"

"Haha, sure. Whatever makes you feel better."

While rubbing my sore shoulder, I look up and down the beach. To our left at least seven piers jut out into the ocean before the falling dusk blocks anything more from my view. 

"Is everyone already back at the hotel?"

Giving me an odd look while I remove my sandals and stretch, he curtly affirms my assumption and asks, "What are you doing?"

"I think I'm going to go for a run. Take off your shoes and come with."

Hesitating, he asks, "But won't our shoes get stolen?"

"Ha, maybe your shoes, but not my sandals. Come on."

The damp sand mercifully cushions each step that I take, giving me reason to run faster. Porter heaves beside me as we pass one pier after the next. We're forced to take a detour around a fisherman sitting on a cooler next to his fat hound. The sight of his fishing pole puts the nerves in my feet on alert for the next few minutes. Every grain of sand is suddenly palpable as my soles expect a painful hook with each succeeding step.

"Is this the eighth or ninth pier?" Porter manages to ask me through two wheezing breaths. Stopping next to a wooden pillar, I clutch my knees and shake my head. 

"No, gasp this is the gasp tenth pier."

"We've been running wheeze forever; let's wheeze head back."

Running back, I had no idea how far we had come. Now that the sun has gone down, I worry that I won't be able to recognize our section of this monotonous beach. With each step, my feet sink unmercifully into the damp sand; the arches of my feet searing with pain. Damn sand.

At last having passed, I think, nine piers, we stop. 

"Our shoes wheeze should be here wheeze, right?"

Scanning the dark beach from my stooped position, I can't focus on anything. 

"Yeah, gasp somewhere around here gasp. You keep looking."

Lying out on the sand, the waves glint menacingly at me in the moonlight. I just hope that I'm lying close enough for the surf to soak my feet.

All in a Fight's Vindication

Another day has come and not yet gone, and I'm wondering what to have for lunch. Some things never change. I latch my bike to the fence and walk toward the center of the main square. The sun is beating down on us today about as strongly as it ever has. A few people walk by without a word, and I couldn't be more pleased. I need some alone time before I leave.
Settling down on a bench, I watch a Moroccan man showing his son how to tear off bread and give it to the birds. He patiently guides his son's hand with his own to ensure that he doesn't throw the bread with too much force. In a language that I cannot understand, he tells the young boy what to do.
Hold the bread with your palm up. Toss it underhand so as not to frighten them. No, not AT the birds, toss it toward their feet.
Lounging out, I stretch my back across the back of the bench and remove my jacket. Reed is sitting against a tree nearby reading a book. He looks more content than usual today. The young boy is giggling hysterically as the birds jump over each other in order to get their beaks on a piece of bread. Hmm, bread. I want some bread, and some good bread at that. I grab my jacket and begin traversing the square. Visible at the southeast corner there's a grocery store. I'm enormously pleased thinking about lunch today; I'm going to dish out some cash and treat myself. Once inside, I snatch a fruit smoothie off the shelf, pull a full loaf of French bread out of a basket, and head to the meat section. I buy the nicest German sausage that I can find and head back out the door.
Good, my bench is still empty. The birds congregate around my feet as I toss them my crumbs. The bread is soft and the wurst is perfect. Lounging back and commanding my bird army with my any bread-tossing whim, I am king of the plaza. That's right, birdies, I deserve this.
An accented voice interrupts, "Good afternoon. Do you have any money for me?"
My tranquility shattered, I look to my right. Sitting next to me on the bench is a toothless refugee grinning all gums at me; someone is trespassing on my land. I'm in no mood for being hassled, so I offer him his small fee to scram.
"Sure, here's a euro."
Snatching it greedily, he tucks it in his pocket while saying thanks. Eying my wurst and bread, he goes further, "May I have some of your food?"
This is too much. He could buy a loaf of bread with the money I just gave him. "No. You may not."
"Please?"
"No, now please leave me alone."
"This is a public bench. I think I'll stay until you give me some of that sausage."
What a bastard. I lose my temper. I yell. He yells. Hell, we all yell.
Things having escalated within a minute or two, he lunges unexpectedly for my fancy German wurst, and manages to get his grubby hands on one end! I push him away and take it back. He pushes me hard, and I retaliate with a bird king's righteous fist of fury. The small man crashes to the ground and screams bloody murder. Cry, baby, cry, just don't mess with me.
"Webb, what are you doing??" It's Reed.
"He tried to steal my food, so I showed him what's up."
"Dude, you just beat up a bum!! This looks really bad."
I take a moment to stop clutching my hard-fought food and glance around. Sure enough, there's a fairly sized crowd gathering all around us. The look on Reed's face is one of absolute terror; heck, I may as well have kicked a puppy and slapped a hoe to elicit a response of this magnitude. But right now I just don't care. I did what I had to and any judgmental douche can suck it.
As the police arrive in their goofy helmets I begin tossing the bum-tainted bits of sausage to the birds. I suppose I can finish the bread while the cops lecture me.