The scarf’s warmth is proof. Proof of pumped blood, of living. My living. I am alive. In a body. A trigger pulls and a seismic ache awakens. A searing pain rises, as the sun does, assured of its scorch. Every inch of me shakes. She takes out a phone and dials quickly. I laugh. The end of me tickles. “He looks . . . Oh God, please get here quick . . .” I am not dead. I am not not dead. I am in a body, on a ground, and it is morning. It is Winter or I am Winter. I am alive, at the behest of death’s dress rehearsal. The pain. The pain. Please. My bones break each other, within. Internal ash.
