I saw a bandage—plain white, long—starting from above the knee and ending just below it. I took it for granted that whatever was beneath it would be okay. But then I saw the rust-colored weep, the bloom of purple, the dried blood sitting crisp in each tiny channel incised into the skin. The staples were said to be holding the long cut together, but in truth, they seemed to do more harm than help—they dug deep into the skin, not only sealing the wound, but wounding it further.