They will cut through bone, hollow out marrow, grind my pelvis smooth, and set titanium where bones once could be trusted. Then they will close me up, pronounce me “good as new,” and send me home — slightly altered, faintly metallic, and very grateful. I’m not frightened so much as humbled — by the strangeness of it, and by the quiet truth that, now and then, even the stubbornly self-reliant must be carried. So I’m gently cashing in on the times you’ve said, “If there’s anything you need, let me know.” During the day I’ll manage — yogurt, granola, coffee, bread, cheese, fruit, music and books. Monk food for a temporarily dismantled man. What I could truly use, now and then, is dinner. Nourishment, briefly shared, to help the healing take over.