I’ve spent most of the summer going to physical therapy for my knee. I’m seeing a physical therapist over by Centennial Park, and it is terrible. He’s great. My knee is back down to its normal size and I have some feeling back in it. So, like, I guess if you’re into mobility and not having to have surgery, he’s your guy.

But every time I go, he’s got me doing some horrific form of self-torture, and I mutter and swear and threaten to run away. Like right now — I’m working on standing on a cushion on my bad leg, with my knee bent. God knows what my other leg is doing. My hands and arms are flailing wildly. And supposedly, I’m going to someday be able to balance like that for longer than half a second. I don’t think I could do that before I hurt my knee.

“I can’t do it,” I say.

“That’s why

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