I go under the bed sheets and fall into a crouch in a wooden dinghy in the trough of a cold titanium swell awash with 1000-ruble bills and islands of blood clots. I don’t know how to stand. The sky is pre-tornado green. I peer over the edge of the boat, grasp at the bills and toss them onto the rotted deck. I don’t see any MVDs, but the thought of their arrival makes me tension my gut, girding my intestines upwards, lessening the pressure they exert on my pelvis. A minted thumb is massaging circles on my aorta, causing me to pull my shoulder blades back and together. The left one moves down farther to try and squeeze the thumb out.

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