In the afternoon my mates from work come to visit, seven of them. Engineers and space cadets all, navigators to new worlds, we're not a sentimental bunch, but here we are doing our sentimental thing. I feel like I need to entertain, show a little energy, exude a little bravado. It's not that bad, I act, and in truth, it's not. I feel pretty good, I say, and in truth, I do.
Dinner is served.
Tea, broth, Jell-O. Again, the night blissfully lingers and the temperature is perfect. I have no duties but to get well. I watch TV, I sleep. Rejoice and take a difficult shower and grunt a little with gas as the intestines stir with life again. The truck recedes into the distance, but as I make my plans to go home the next day it begins to sink in that I'm recovering roadkill, that I've been run over by every wheel on a big concrete mixer.