Mountain Toenail Fungus

‘How bad is it?’ Micha asked me, closing his eyes as I gingerly pried off his hiking boot.

‘I don’t know yet,’ I grumbled, annoyed that this was how I was spending my weekend. It was supposed to be a fun couple of days away, just hiking through the pristine national park. Now I was standing over my best friend’s disgusting foot in the middle of nowhere while he suckled on a camel bag for comfort.

‘This sucks,’ I said, again.

‘It sucks more for me,’ he protested.

‘No, it hurts more for you,’ I shot back, tugging on his sweat-soaked sock. ‘I’m absolutely getting the worst end of the deal.

His sock scraped itself over the end of his foot, and I almost fell over, suppressing the urge to vomit.

‘What is it?’ he asked me, hand pressed over his forehead.

I couldn’t immediately answer, still locked in a battle with my gag reflex.

‘Steve?’ he asked, peering out at me. ‘What is it?’

‘You’ve got—’ I gasped out, pausing to press a hand against my mouth. ‘Toenail fungus,’ I spat out. ‘It’s fungus.’

‘What?!’ he yelled, sitting upright and peering down at his foot. ‘How the hell did that happen?’

‘You know I have no idea how to treat toenail fungus, right?’ I said, looking pointedly up at the sky. ‘And we’re in the middle of nowhere?’

‘It’s okay, I can make it,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘We’re what, a kilometre away from the next campsite?’

‘Not even close,’ I sighed. ‘At least twenty.’

‘Twenty?!’

‘You’re getting shrill.’

‘Because my foot is about to fall off,’ he squealed.

‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Just have to get higher up the mountain, until we get a signal. We’ll get you to a podiatrist soon enough. If you’re good, I’ll ask about getting you some custom orthotics to help with foot pain. Cheltenham has a well-funded rescue department, right?’

‘I have no idea,’ Micha said, starting to panic.

‘Relax, relax,’ I sighed. ‘Give me your phone and I’ll go find us a signal. Oh, and Micha?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You disgust me.’