I am stunned.

Right under my fingers, as big as a wad of bubble gum, only harder, like the cap on the toothpaste tube. I feel it again, and my stomach jumps up into my chest.

No. Through the apartment, touching the leaves of plants. No. Feed the cats. Open the refrigerator. Close the refrigerator. I can’t eat. I can’t read, can’t watch any more of a television movie about a meteor falling straight into downtown Phoenix, people screaming and glass flying, a foolish movie that leaves me gasping. I am thinking of that thing, buried in my breast, breathing and nesting and eating like a fleshy mouth. I call Dr Dragonas. ‘But maybe I’m just being silly,’ I say. ‘I’m only thirty-four. I don’t even smoke any more.’