I’m not much of a dancer, but when I stepped off the stairs Saturday night and rolled my left foot, I heard snap, crackle, and pop, clutched my smarting member, and started hopping on the other like a Mexican jumping bean. I knew exactly what had happened. I knew by the sound and the pain. I’d broken my foot.
I knew this with as much certainty as if an apostle had said so because I’d done exactly the same thing almost a year to the day before—October 19 last year, October 16 this. Further troubling the laws of probability, it was the same foot. And if the locus of the pain meant anything, it was the same bone too.
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