His muzzle stretched, drawing in air for a howl or cackle, but instead he yawned. His tongue lapped over his lips and teeth, prodded the indent of his canine and dislodged a morsel of hot dog. He swallowed.

It was a fight to get to the bedroom. Five years had leveled his tolerance. What had been a serene fuzz while he was seated now gelled into a damp morass he had to wade through, the floor squishy and teetering under each step. Skull full of helium but shoes turned into anvils, he lost his footing and began stumbling until the doorframe rescued him. It eased him upright. He hugged the carpet with his toes, steadying his sights so he could decipher the mirage rippling inside the bedroom. By squeezing one eye shut, he managed to superimpose the two opaque, Michelle-like shapes into the single, actual, marvelous her. Michelle. His machete and everything, his all that and then some. She gave a low, understanding chuckle, and he returned a high, dimwitted snicker, and just like that, the two of them were shucked clean of any lingering anger or guilt. Just like that, they forgave and forgot this very strange and fucked-up day.

A slow, careful game of undressing each other. Plenty of time-outs to rest, moan, kiss, giggle, then giggle at their giggling. Either he’d slithered under her or she’d somehow scaled him—the trail of their progress was muddled, erased, but so was everything that wasn’t right here on their skin or in their mouths. All that mattered was that they were belly to belly, their minds tiptoeing the edges of sleep, while the rest of them melded into a single, tender hide.

While Michelle pittered in and out of sleep like raindrops off pine needles, Henry didn’t want to give in to oblivion, not just yet. He wanted this to last, and thought sharing it with someone else might help sustain it. He eased Michelle off him, their naked, gummy pelts peeling like cling wrap off lasagna. When he stood, he found that the pill had worn off a bit and restored some solidity to the floor, which was now less seesaw, more diving board. He opened his drawer and was stroked with reassurance, seeing his clothes untouched, folded as neatly as he’d left them five years ago. He stepped into a pair of gym shorts, then went to the living room where a blizzard was scrolling on the TV, right above Junior. The boy slept in the same pose Henry found himself in every morning: face up, spine rigid, hands in a funereal stack over his sternum. Unwilling to risk waking or scaring the boy, he lay down on the floor, propping his cheek on the corner of the mattress to better observe.