Broken back

I looked up to see a young man approaching us.
Carlos Ramirez was of average height, maybe of a little more than average muscle. He was filling out, getting that solid adult look to him, though for some reason I still expected to see a gangly kid in his early twenties whenever I saw him. He’d grown his dark hair out longer. His skin was bronzed from inclination and the sun. He walked with difficulty, limping and leaning on a thick cane carved with symbols—his wizard’s staff. He wore jeans and a tank top and a light jacket. Ramirez was solid, a proven fighter, a good man to have at your back, and was one of a very few people on the White Council of Wizardry whom I considered a friend.
“Harry,” he said. He nodded warily at Thomas. “Raith.”
My brother nodded back. “Been a while.”
“Since the Deeps,” Ramirez agreed.
“Carlos,” I said. “How’s your back?”
“I know when it’s going to rain now,” he said, flashing me a quick grin. “Won’t be dancing much for a while. But I won’t miss that damned chair.”

Peace Talks Chapter 1, Page 4-5