I had stayed up late again the previous night, poking at the keyboard of my laptop for a relief that did not come, shuffling through memories for the strongest scent, some unexamined aspect I could use to fill myself up. I’d awoken on the couch, empty and wired from an endless dream in which I was following someone whose face I could never quite see, and who disappeared around corners that hadn’t been there a second before.

“Enough,” I said to the ceiling. Behind my eyes stretched a band of pounding pain; my mouth was dry and sour. In the bathroom I looked at my reflection. My face was swollen, my eyes dull. Enough.