It starts with a faulty appendix? Wrong. Keep your eyes on the mom. She’s dead, it shouldn’t be hard. From there, it’s anyone’s guess. Events, like children, return on their own terms. Maybe this is the night you sleep. Maybe it’s the day you’re wearing piss and blood on the outside again, astonished by your crawling pace, the veins spidering your ankles. Good luck letting go. I mean that.