My heart begins to open slowly, a tentative flower in early spring. I allow myself one moment to imagine it: My body knotless, normal, free.

“Yes, go on. What is it?”

“Well, it’s known as the Sugar Water technique,” he says. “It helps loosen the knot through a series of 37 injections to the—”

My heart snaps shut.

“Stop right there.”

“Well, just conside—”

“No, thank you, please let me get dressed.”

“I can he—”

“I’m getting dressed.”

THE HALLWAY IS EMPTY WHEN I LEAVE, the fake organs reversing their order: Plastic liver, plastic spine, plastic heart.

The ride home is dizzying, the city whipping by in a montage: Trucks, buildings, dumpsters, women screaming, business men laughing, sad women, small children, clouds darkening above our heads.

In my empty apartment, I climb into bed and wrap myself around the knot, wait for the storm to come down.

◆In the early 1900s, physicians injected gold salts into limbs to reduce the pain of arthritis

◆The word pain derives from the Old French peine, from the Latin poena for penalty

◆Hippocrates wrote frequently about trepanation, a practice wherein doctors would cut holes in the skulls of those in pain to release their suffering

◆Plato and Aristotle theorized pain originated outside of the body, descending upon it like a demon

◆The Egyptians placed eels over the wounds of patients, noting their shocks could relieve pain symptoms

VISION

A man stands on the black sands. His white robes billow in the breeze. He has a thick brown beard and opaque eyes. He reaches out and takes my hand.

“Come with me,” he says.

The beach is so black it could be ink. We are walking through a film negative — white sky, dark sand, foaming white ocean. The bodies of silver fish litter the shore, their translucent bodies shimmering against the dark earth.

Nearby, high mossy cliffs serve as home for flocks of white birds which soar and nest in the craters. At the base of the cliffs, a small black mouth opens in the rock.

“This is where I will cure your problems,” he says.

“I only have one problem,” I say, gesturing to my abdomen.

“You have more problems than just one,” he says. “Many more.”

He bends down and moves through the low entrance. I follow him into the belly of the dark cave. A match is struck. He lights one candle, then another, then another, then another, a table of white pillared wax coming into view and casting light.

The walls of the cave look more menacing now that I can see them. In the rock, I can make out the dull scratches of men who have been here before, small etchings of men on fire.

He pulls a box from below the table of candles, then steps toward me.

“Please, sit,” he says, gesturing to a big rock.