Three bad days

Three days—three bad pain days, like a string of three dark ugly stones on the abacus of some miserly god. For reasons that remain unclear, a fever burns in my right hip and the muscle tightens like a fist, like a band of fire, like a seizure. No amount of gentle stretching can soothe it. No number of zanaflex tablets can relax it. Nothing but the usual panacea—a good night's sleep—can loosen its grip, however briefly. My only joy, walking through the warm salt waters of the pool at the Wellbridge Center, seems to cause further harm. Even that small happiness is harmful. What hope do I have of returning to myself if I can't take even the smallest steps?