Her vision swam; her thoughts moved like stale molasses. Everything about this seemed dream-like in its simultaneous vividness and indistinctness. Small details took on ridiculous clarity—the ashes fell by the hearth in a floral pattern, the blood pumped through Otchigen’s temple like a wriggling worm, she had a speck of dirt under her third left fingernail. The room looked like it was underwater.
