There was a pause during which I refused to look at her. My entire life, I’ve been a terrible liar, which most people would think is a good trait but did nothing to help me in high school when I was trying to go to a party but convince my parents I was seeing a movie. My tell was that I usually provided an excruciating amount of unnecessary detail, like I was having a conversation with myself, and I didn’t want to end up describing the color of our gutter guards or how we had a skunk infestation last year.

“Well, at a minimum you’re going to need a hefty dose of antibiotics and follow-up care. If it doesn’t get better, then you might need to consult with a plastic surgeon for the scar.”

That made me look.

“A plastic surgeon?”

She nodded. “The scar isn’t going to be pretty—it’s pretty jagged around the edges. A plastic surgeon would be able to make it look cleaner after it heals. They might end up recommending a skin graft.”

My stomach turned at the thought of removing skin from one area of my body to attach it to another, like a paring knife slicing off the peel of an apple. I made the mistake of glancing down at my leg, then looked away again. My entire ankle was red and swollen, puffed out like it could be popped with a safety pin. The burn itself was black and purple, with bleeding scabs and fluid oozing. And it was all in the shape of a small hand, like a child’s.

“Are you sure it was just a fall?” the doctor said.

I nodded quickly. “Oh yes. I’m so clumsy. Those darn locust tree roots.” And then I launched into my knowledge of locust trees and essentially the history of every tree growing in our neighborhood, like the crab apple trees that attracted bees and smelled terrible.

“Anyway,” I blabbered as I watched her eyes get wider and wider, “I’ll have to call that plastic surgeon. Maybe I can get a two-for-one special with a tummy tuck.” I gave a high-pitched snort as she continued to stare. I had lobbed her a verbal football, and she let it hit the ground next to her without attempting to catch it.

An hour later, I was home. Mark and the kids had picked me up and then driven through Walgreens to get my prescriptions, which were handed to us in a giant grocery bag. There were antibiotics, painkillers, creams, clear sheeting, and more sterile bandages and flexible tape. And a giant ACE bandage to wrap around it.