Six Pairs of Thick Gray Socks Saved My White House on Elm Street

of the medical building, my boots heavy but my pace deliberate. Inside the small exam room, the air smelled of rubbing alcohol and old paper.

Dr. Albert rotated his fountain pen between his fingers, his eyes focused on my chart. He looked up, his expression gentle behind his thin spectacles.

“Your skin is starving, Martha,” he said, placing the pen on continue reading …