Never a lip is curved with pain that can’t be kissed into smiles again.

– Bret Harte

I knew something was wrong when I flipped back the covers, rose to a standing position, and felt the tightness in my right trapezius, the stiff, residual grip of muscles made tense by a night filled with animated dreams. With a prickle of awareness that matched the pins-and-needles sensation radiating outward from the unreachable spot on my back, I cautiously began my morning routine. After brushing my teeth and winding my hair through a scrunchie without incident, I breathed a sigh of relief — just a little stiff, nothing to worry about — and tossed caution away as nonchalantly as I’d dropped my comb onto the bathroom counter a moment before.In horror movies, it is always after a character relaxes, having determined the cause of a frightening noise to be nothing more than a troublesome cat, that terror chooses to strike. In true thriller form, convinced I was safe from harm, I reached for my socks with one swift jerk of my arm and then froze as the tightness in my shoulder became a pyre of agony, its white-hot flames licking up my neck and down to my elbow. Not good.