he stabbed a gash in the raft and snipped upward—the stale, rubbery air blasting into his face. It was moist and fetid, and when he tore the hole wider, the smell washed over him—strangely warm in the cold night air, and strangely foul. It was not only the smell of someone’s old sneakers left out in the rain; there was also something putrid about it and he couldn’t help viewing the slashed object as he might have viewed a ripped intestine.
