Two days after minor surgery I’m still walking like an octogenarian. (I could not have been able to walk at all, I could have been dead; a man should always count his blessings.)
And there are still the arrows drawn by the surgeon on my upper legs. They appear to be a reminder of the fragility of my groin, the fragility of life. But perhaps my body was just fertile ground for hunters. And hunters like surgeons need hints.