SHELTER

Dig through your pockets to find no insurance card, only four dollars and a half-sucked Fisherman’s Friend, which is why you think yourself an old washerwoman—cash-poor and stinking.

A Bulgarian emergency technician wriggles the tube through your cardia, pumps in saline seawater or peroxide, and it is flat, the ingesta: pills, pizza, and one peanut unfurl;

the fellow adjusts your tubes and monitors, and you know, even half-gone, that you’re going to twitch below the belt and get an erection in front of the man with the Dragunov.

 

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