During a trip to North Carolina as a twelve year old with my family, I went with my cousin and her then significant other to go fishing.
Since I did not (and still do not) enjoy fishing, I waded downstream, along the rocks and river-worn stones.
There was a bridge overpass of the river, the pilings making a connection to the water on large, smoothly-eroded concrete platforms. There were logs and branches stuck in various positions on and around the pilings.
As I was crossing over a log, I surprised a snake sunning on the platform and quickly shifted my weight to get back on the other side of the log, the side not with the snake. As I did this, the log fell loose of the piling and I went straight into the shallow water, feet first, straddling the log.
I was panicky and got back up and made sure the snake was not around and started wading back upstream. Water rushing toward me, I noticed my foot hurting and picked it up out of the water. I was bleeding.
I guessed that when I fell, my foot went into broken glass, or a sharp rock, rusted metal thrown away in a small-town-mountainous region of North Carolina…something. I went back to my cousin. We were on our way back to my Grandmother’s cabin, to my Dad. He would know what to do.
He took me to an Emergency Clinic in a nearby town. Medical instruments on the walls in what looked like Ziploc bags.
I remember the needle injecting painkiller into my wound most of all and the throbbing pain that would come later that night.
Five stitches and a ¾ inch scar on the high arch of my right foot. Sometimes, if I step just right the skin tightens unnaturally like an over-taut canvas and a fast pain will shoot through the arch making me wince and sometimes step funny.