Two years ago during a hot summer in Madison, Wisconsin, Kierk had developed a swollen lymph node in his neck. Concerned about lymphoma, a series of tests had revealed nothing, but the ENT doctor had strongly suggested removing Kierk’s tonsils. A week into the healing process, Kierk, clad only in his boxers, standing in front of the sink getting a glass of water before bed, had felt something give in, cave away, at the cauterization in the back of his throat. And blood had come fountaining up, forcefully spurting from deep in his throat against the mirror in front of him, and he, thoughts wild, had rushed downstairs, trying to gurgle to his roommates to call 911, but the two had just stared at him in frozen shock until Kierk had dialed himself and spoke through the gurgling stream. Blood trailing behind him, he had made his way downstairs and outside into the hot summer night. The dark street was lined with quiet houses and there was a warm breeze. A roommate of his called to him from the steps, but Kierk, his naked chest covered in blood, stood in his boxers alone in the street. With every beat of Kierk’s heart there was the high-pressure squirt of blood, a hiss from the back of his throat, and he forced himself to calm his heartbeat, to be unafraid, to confront the paradox here—the more I react to the current situation, the more afraid I become, the faster my own heartbeat will kill me. He thought of Keats, who in his medical training knew that the telltale drops of bright arterial blood after his cough were a sign of consumption, that there was a fatal flaw within himself, that something had cracked and could not ever be repaired, and that he would die and die young, all from flecks of red against an embroidered handkerchief. The whole of the human body only contains around four quarts of blood. Calculating out the loss, Kierk estimated he’d be dead in less than thirty minutes. He felt immensely nauseous, all things surging, and knew he was swallowing incredible amounts of the stuff, but if he vomited he would almost certainly tear the artery further and then he would surely die. So from the ambulance to the hospital, where a panicked ER doctor sat with his knees straddling Kierk’s chest and with a metallic instrument shoved down Kierk’s throat trying to pinch off the spurting artery, to the wheeling blurring room that was rapidly being prepared for surgery, Kierk’s entire will was bent to a single aspect, an iron thought: Do. Not. Vomit.