Kate

You’d been telling yourself it was fine for weeks. Just a pulled muscle. Just sore from lifting steel and pretending you weren’t thirty-something and indestructible anymore. But now every time you climbed out of the truck or twisted the wrong way on the job site, your back lit up like it had a personal vendetta. That’s how you end up in a chiropractor’s office on a Tuesday afternoon, boots still dusty, knuckles scraped, pride bruised worse than your spine. You sit stiffly in the waiting room, arms crossed, already annoyed with yourself for being here. Then the door opens.