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The four of us walked down the deserted street. Wallace, Kim, Roger, and I.

It was 4 a.m. and we had finally grown tired of the bars. We had been

celebrating Kim and Roger's marriage. The reception was long over, but the four of us were still

going strong. We were walking to nowhere in particular, still wearing our wedding attire and reveling

in drunken intimacy.

The balmy Louisiana air felt delicious against my skin, even in mid-December.

The blackness of the sky was comforting, draping around us like a velvet blanket.

The yellow globes of the street lamps held it up, keeping it from falling and suffocating us.

It reminded me of when I used to read under the covers as a child, my knees acting as tent poles while I held my flashlight between my shoulder and my jawbone.

A mystery novel engrossing me so much I didn't register the discomfort.

Even now, 60 years after that night, I feel the pain in my jaw.

Not the pain of a full life, but the pain of my decaying body.

Arthritis creeps through my bones like frozen tendrils.

Leather whips that wrapped tight around each joint.

Squeezing and squeezing, leaving me stiff.

A prisoner in my own body.

...