But oblivion remained just beyond reach. After fifteen minutes of trying, I gave it up as a bad job and forced my stiff body out of bed. I was still wearing my duster, and the armor plates had pressed into my flesh while I slept. Running a hand under my shirt, the ridges and depressions I encountered along my ribs felt like some kind of bipedal armadillo. That fit: my mouth tasted like I'd been eating ants. I cursed my way over to the sink, ran a cup of lukewarm water, and rinsed out my mouth. (I didn't swallow, no sir. Real Barrens-dwellers seem to build up a resistance to amoebic dysentery and other such pleasant diversions, but I've never hung around long enough for my immune system to get with the program.)