Chapter 8
Someone brought in a tray of lunch or something. I began to pray for it to go away. It smelled like spicy, rotten seaweed and may have been, or it could have been some splendid local or Filipino dish, maybe dead, maybe not—same thing. At least this time I didn’t throw up.
Still awake—nurses, pulse, blood pressure, temperature, etc., etc. The covers put up over me tight like a shroud. As soon as they left I started kicking, gently at first, and then I began to get angry. I kicked so hard my foot hit the end of the bed and I felt stitches pop in my calf. “Fuck!” burst out of my mouth, like the vomit I’d spewed earlier. “Son of a douche-bagging, muffler-topping, blood-sucking, snot-nosed—piggy—with—stinky—crabs!” I ended up crying.