Each morning was a new day and every several hours I had to eat again. The man who used to make me breakfast was waking up somewhere else. The hangover, at least, felt true. The past could be assertive.

I rested my head on the mantel of the boarded fireplace where the raccoon mostly died. This was after he was gone. The scratching and the thumping— I’d had to close the door to sleep.

In the dream, my friend was alive.