Driving east on I-94 from 8:41 to 8:55 I saw brief glimpses of beauty.
The UFO glow from the high-mast lights floated in the nautical blue twilight.
‘Holocene’ hovered through the speakers over the compressed snow-tire’s tread.
Kyle and Colin—relapsed Wisconsin Children’s Hospital patients—floated through the snow-frosted forest.
They hollored over howlers and corrupted cricket sex; chucking weighty snowballs at each other’s winter coats.
Colin’s backpack: three spray cans, two decks of Magic: The Gathering cards, a filled weekly pill case, and a lighter.
Through rain-stained windows I saw a diner on the right covered in snow with a neon sign that looked like RES RANT in bold violet.
A ferris wheel to the left spiraled in an empty park.
In the hospital the boys would compare the size of their portacath scars.
I saw a jack rabbit in mid-air disappear in the snow.
Around endless trees Kyle walked to a stump, grabbed the lighter and spray can, spray-painted a golden spiral, and lit a fire that whirlled into shape.
The fire grew, and Colin took off, but he suddenly stopped, seized, and convulsed to the ground under the spiral fire’s spotlight.
He blew a puff of weak smoke, while his left cheek gradually greeted graupel as blood poured out his mouth.
Frozen, Kyle stood in a deep snow grave, and said No, not him, not now.
At 8:56 I drove into a snow-plowed ditch, feeling not quite nauseous, not quite stable, standing on a snowdrift gazing across the burning forest, inhaling sharp dust.