I see them. Two strands of rusty spiked steel downed between old posts. It’s the end of our trek. I’m tired. I’m wearing shorts. “Lift your feet. Step over,” I tell myself. Then. Sprawled front-forward on the ground. Poles akimbo. Palms scraped. Legs tangled, hooked, and bleeding. But I’m not alone. 
Resting my forehead on the ground, I hear Uncle Paul’s smooth boot steps and low sigh. Gram’s youngest, now eighty, ever calm. He gingerly frees one barb from behind my right knee. Then warns, “This next one is going to hurt.” Twist. Pull. Release. Blood flows down the back of my leg as he helps me up and we walk to the car. Marked again. Spines and barbs. Roots and posts. 
— Camille LeFevre, Body Topography