
It’s raining but the rain is dry. It gathers on his hand, in his nails.
A clicking sound. He checks his watch but his wrist is empty.
The rain is dirty and it’s too late for him. There is contamination at the deepest level.
Something ticks under his pillow. He reaches under and his hand disappears behind the blank mass. He doesn’t know what is under the rock. He stares at the pillowcase where his wrist ends. The pillowcase is flat with wrinkles at the edges.