So now that it's approaching the end of the woodburning season--especially since we will probably run out of wood this week, and what we have left to burn is still under a foot and a half of snow, so it's not going to burn too good--Mojo has, since Friday, been suffering from the occasional bane of the firewood hauler--the Phantom Splinter in her finger.
I can feel it. I know it's there. But darned if I can find the blasted thing. Believe me, every spare moment the past few days I have spent staring at my finger like an idiot. I have studied it about as closely as one can when one does not have easy access to an electron microscope. I can't see ANYTHING. No entry wound, no discoloration, no tiny pinpricks of blood, nothing foreign lurking under the skin. Yet it's there. Driving me nuts.