no warning, just a scratch in my chest but that night I pulled the covers tight, shivered and hacked in the fever-tossed sheets. Next day I was wheezing, lungs bubbling and ticking, too hot or too cold, hypothalamus shot. I’d been working hard and long on the pages, exhausted, a bad batch of words had infected me. That night I dreamed of log cabin hideaways and clearings in the firs, wolves padding nearby and a last match to strike for salvation. And then today I surfaced for a walk in the woods, came upon a tree uprooted. My kid shot up there and froze on the descent. I had to make my way up the trunk to the rescue, legs wobbling, old boots worn glass-smooth from wear, from too many long roads and wrong turns. But I got her down. And we climbed out of the valley, light spilling from everything, air clean and fresh after the fug.
