There is a small hole about an eighth of an inch wide in the middle of the ball of my left foot where a rusty nail poked up from a rotten plank and pierced my sole. I was ten. Back home in my bedroom after the trip to the doctor’s office, I pulled off the bandage and examined my wound. It was impressively deep. I assumed the hole would eventually close. It didn’t. Some holes don’t.
That last paragraph goes straight to the heart.