She soldiers on with a limp from an old gunshot wound that put a stammer in her soul.
She hesitates upon standing, and often winces at an over-hastened step. Stairs are her nightmare, as is most anything up. Like being trapped in a cage made of rubber bands she is limited, but can force her way in some direction.
She wont tell you how she got it nor even where it really is. The thigh, the hip, the gut; as is anyone's guess.
My money's on somewhere else.
She is dissolved in some solution made with three parts carbolic acid two parts toothsome regret one part pure concentrated time.
If I could pick her up and carry her I would but she would scream, and kick, and holler I know. So I'll let her limp It's her way.