I tilted my face up to the ceiling, like a soft cool rain was falling on it. I closed my eyes. The palms of my hands felt suddenly radiant with heat. I felt like I was Anne of Green Gables, and I was at long last going to shank Gilbert Blythe’s punk ass and leave him for dead. I felt like somewhere inside me that gray industrial canister with CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE stenciled on it was tearing open, rivets popping like gunshots.
