You climb toward the peak of your career and an old wound drags the ascent crosswise. Chiron, the centaur hauling an arrow that never closed and never a body with mass, crosses the meridian at a right angle, the visible heading your work points toward. The sore place fouls the direction you chase in public, and the elbow knocks every time you step out to be seen. The mark will not slot in clean. It cuts across. Out of that steady grinding between hurt and calling, a public manner gets carved that no untouched person could fake. You stop hiding the limp and start working it straight into the craft, the way it built you brick by brick.