Here I am, underground in an ankle-deep stew of dead and, in some cases, mostly dead rats. The heavy smell of mildew and stagnant runoff hangs thick in the air. Might as well be breathing through a bar straw lined with black mold. Every limb burns; screaming to get back the oxygen spent within the last half hour. Every pulse point is thumping heavily, rhythmically mistimed even for the middle age mush I’ve evolved into. With each pump of blood, the overstretched arteries near my temples cause . . .
