Ramirez Gonzales.
This damned leg.
I groan, gripping the razor, trying to finish what should be the simplest task in the world. Just a little shave—just a clean stroke, but no, apparently that’s too much to ask. My balance is a joke. I don’t want to put too much weight on my injured leg as I stand in front of the mirror, but holding everything on one leg feels like some form of punishment.
The knife slips and I nick my jawline. Blood beads along the cut, mocking me. Great. Just great. I press on, ignoring the sting, but my good leg starts to falter. The blood flow seems to betray me and before I know it, I’m on the floor, teeth gritted.
“Ramirez?”
I hear her voice outside.
I don’t answer. I force myself back up, using what strength I have to lean on the counter. My cane is just out o
