But most of all, I want to shove my head beneath the depths of any river, to gargle on the bubbles, because I want to swallow the sky when any sun is visible through the drowning.

I was sick for four months, but it was not the kind of sick I was used to: it was a numbing contagion. Under darkened skies, I coughed up the particles of illness. I looked at the walls

But we barely make it out of his sight and into the room before Xi’s on her back with her one leg up, foot on the concrete wall, both arms out straight, hands on my chest, holding me off.