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The Wandering Albatross

January 23, 2025
Stella Kleinman

The strongest ocean current in the world is the Antarctic Circumpolar Current, coursing through the narrowest chokepoint around the White Continent. Average water flow is 4.77 billion cubic feet, over 600 times the volume of the Amazon River. With 40 foot waves and 50 mph winds, the Drake Passage from Argentina to Antarctica is a uniquely violent journey believed to have caused thousands of shipwrecks. I’m sitting by the window watching the world churn. The boat is pitching—skyrocketing up and plummeting down over wave after wave. If not for the gentle hum of the engine, I wouldn’t know we are moving forward. From the front observation deck, I can feel split seconds of weightlessness, where my throat becomes a vacuum and heart strands get caught between my teeth. Anyone with any sense is in their cabin, hiding from seasickness under ceilings, sheets, and eyelids. A smooth, dark silhouette fills the window, interrupting the vast expanse of otherwise empty sky. At first, I think it’s a spot in my vision– a hallucination from too many nights at sea. How could this stranger, this creature of solitude, find us here? Lifted by long, sleek wings, the massive bird glides across the air as if it’s a solid surface. With dark eyes narrowed ahead, it tilts back and forth on its axis to catch the harsh gusts. The sea falls to its knees at first brush with the bird’s wingtips, a kiss that stops at the lips, suspending itself in the air. Last night, Marten, an expedition leader and ornithologist, presented a PowerPoint about the wandering albatross. We sat on the floor like young children, watching him click through videos breaking down the bird’s flight patterns. The albatross flies in a unique style called dynamic soaring, which involves gracefully swooping through wave troughs on a cyclical path. Carving elegant lines through the sky, it can fly for a thousand miles without flapping its wings. Marten’s eyes glinted as he told us the birds spend the first five to six years of their lives without ever touching land. They can circumnavigate the globe in 46 days, sleeping with half their brain at a time. From behind the window, I watch the white-headed albatross swoop and fall and glide, tracing its flight path with my pointer finger. It is a being of wind and power, one of the elements rather than fauna. In one of my favorite poems, Samuel Coleridge’s lyrical ballad The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a sailor shoots an innocent albatross for no apparent reason, cursing his voyage. The crew endures storms, spirits, and haunting mist as the dead bird hangs over the captain’s neck, a symbol of curse and punishment. The albatross’s mistreatment at human hands signifies the plight of the poet, violent acts against nature with catastrophic consequences, and individual sacrifice. Compulsory storytelling. The bird’s white head dips forward as it catches a gust and effortlessly outruns the ship along the air. My breath fogs up the window glass. Where are you going? Where have you been? What is it like to live surrounded by nothing but air and water, to fade into the horizon day after day? What do you miss? What can you call your own? The albatross answers with a glittering downward swoop. The first time I step on Antarctic land, I am so far away from home that my body is no longer my own. Blue ice crystals glow around my feet as far as I can see, hanging over themselves and creeping forward as time stands still. Every so often a chunk screeches and splashes into the churning ocean. Snowflakes bundle and roll, speckling the harsh slopes of jagged mountains. I picture a holy-handed giant taking a pocket knife to a block of obsidian, carving away sharp bits. Eating each slice of rock off the knife, one by one, then disappearing into the sky. I wade through water so clear and smooth I would try to mold it like clay if I didn’t know any better. I try to survey it all, but my gaze keeps snagging on rock piles and tumbling into snowbanks and slipping down the sides of icebergs into the silent ocean. I feel like I could melt into my feet, or catch a draft of wind and plummet upwards to the tips of the black mountains. I wonder if the sun still sets somewhere, if the streetlamps in my neighborhood still flicker, if the world is still spinning the same way, if I have ever been anywhere else, if I am still my mother’s daughter. If someone reached out and touched me right now, would their hand pass straight through me? I am stuck in time but nowhere in space, existing only elsewhere. I wonder if the wandering albatross leaves a piece of itself on every wind it catches, drawing lines around the globe. Ancient mythology refers to the albatross as the Prince of the Wave, a mystical spirit of lost sailors possessing healing powers and prophesizing divine fortune. By observing these birds, sailors adjusted their course to avoid harsh weather. To hurt an albatross, as demonstrated by Coleridge, was to unleash the wrath of the sea. When I was younger, I couldn’t fall asleep without first finding the North star out my window, or guessing where it was on cloudy nights. In a place where the sun does not set, what do you center your world around? What is it like to be as untethered and alone as the albatross, beak careening forward through empty space? On the seventh night, we leave the ship, hauling packs twice our size. Anthonie and Kai trek in heavy red coats, testing snow and whispering hastily in Dutch. Finally, they decide on a somewhat flat plot of snow as far as possible from seals and avalanche risks. They hand out shovels like goodie bags at a child’s birthday party, if candy and toys could protect from 20 mile per hour winds. Antarctic gusts are in the rare category of things you can only burrow under, never climb over or stand against. When it’s finally my turn with the shovel, I feel like I am digging my own grave. I lay down to mark the size hole I need, then hack into the snow. Fine powder scatters to the breeze every time the spade goes over my shoulder. I am cutting into the Earth’s southern crown, making room for myself in a place unlike anywhere I have ever been. Once I’ve dug a three-foot deep coffin, I gently arrange my two sleeping bags and tuck myself in facing the still-bright sky. Sharp gusts tumble over me, and I welcome the cool air as it buries itself in my lungs. As the temperature drops, snow crystals begin to freeze around me, molding an imprint of my body. In my mind, I am here to stay. I will crawl into this shoveled-out cove each night, watching the animals around me to know when it’s time to sleep. I will live off of mackerel icefish and Antarctic cod and melted snow. Each morning I will make it a little bit farther up the mountain and carve words into the rock, and then retreat. After a while, I will stop thinking about what I am writing. I could really do it. I lay on my back with my eyes open, breathing in the southern sky. A wispy cloud rolls down toward me, obscuring the mountaintop. Every so often, little gentoo penguins splash in and out of the water, always in groups—unlike the albatross, with its commanding wings and daunting spirit. For the first time since meeting it, I feel a dull ache for this mystical creature with no dwelling, this lonely flier. I pull my blankets tighter around me and sink into the earth’s embrace. I don’t know if I managed to sleep tonight, but I know I woke up. The crushing melody of Anthonie’s boots on the snow’s brittle surface invites me back to my mind. It’s four a.m., and we have a long passage to the next island. Once my eyes adjust to the light and I remember where and who I am, I grab a shovel from my neighbor and begin refilling my bedroom with snow. I pack it in and pat it gently, evening the surface so that there is no trace of my stay. I kneel silently atop my handiwork until my knees are soaked and it’s time to go. Back on the ship, I find my body in the same seat on the observation deck. The waves are gentler closer to the shore, and we are rolling side to side rather than pitching. I’m not sure how long I sit hugging my shins before I see it. Another albatross, beak open, dancing up and down along drafts. This time, I don’t question its solitary trajectory or spiritual meaning or how and why it can only chase or flee. I watch the polar breeze wrap itself around the bird’s wingtips and think about interlacing my fingers with my best friend. I watch the sea meet its feathered underbelly as it swoops downward and remember every time I fell asleep in the car as a child and my parents carried me to my bed, every leaf pile my brothers and I jumped into during the early Autumns of growing up, and every pendant a friend has fastened around my neck for me. I think of the way the spirit of the ocean protects the albatross, and let it glide out of my sight.

Most Recent

Most Recent

A Few Impressions

Juliet Corwin
November 6, 2025

– CT, left wrist – I drove to Connecticut to get my first tattoo. The studio, smaller than its parking lot, was tucked away in a gray fold of Stamford. It had been a drizzly morning, and clouds sighed as I walked to the entrance. Timidly, I leaned against the door so it wouldn’t slam shut and scanned the space for a pair of eyes to meet mine. It was my first time inside a tattoo studio, and it showed. Two feet in front of me, a woman lay on her side in a shirt, underwear, and Doc Martens. She chatted with her artist, who hunched over a spread of ink covering the woman’s thigh. The walls were covered in overlapping sketches and prints. Sitting by the only other station in the room was a large man with a permanent frown and huge biceps. I gathered that he would be my artist, and moved toward him. His frown deepened when he saw me. He spoke in short sentences, his voice low and quiet. I showed him the tattoo I wanted and presented my wrist to draw on. Opting for a purple marker, he splashed the design onto my skin way too big. I asked if he could make it any smaller. His eyebrows lifted, but he rubbed away the first drawing and drew it again, a bit smaller. I looked at him pleadingly, too nervous to ask him to change it again. He took the hint and resized it once more. It was tiny, barely a quarter of an inch in height and width. I smiled, and his mouth flattened into a straight line. He prepped the ink and the tattoo gun, and didn’t wear gloves. It took about five minutes to ink the design using the thinnest needle he had. He wiped the excess ink and a few drops of blood from my skin, and I could see the little lines now adorning my wrist. It was perfect. He explained to me that he typically asked clients to pay upwards of $100, but for this he wouldn’t charge more than $40. I paid him $60 and thanked him again. He nodded and pressed one of his sketches into my hand. I had been admiring it while the needle dragged along my skin. It was full of color and soft lines, a warm swirl of tones. As I stepped out the door, I saw that the woman getting the leg tattoo was now eating takeout with her artist. I walked back to my car, watching the clouds inch lower. My wrist stung as I spun the steering wheel home. – MA, right ear – For one of my later tattoos, I filled out an online appointment form for a studio in my hometown in Western Massachusetts. I got matched with an artist named Ian. The space was big, with a lower level for tattoos and an upper level for piercings. There was a waiting area with high ceilings and tons of plants. Ian emerged from his studio and greeted me with a warmth I trusted. He was bald with a long, white beard and eyes that crinkled when he spoke. Ushering me into his studio, he told me to hop up on the table and rolled his chair over to join me. The design I had chosen was simple, and I wanted it to sit behind my ear. He used a disposable razor to shave the edge of my hairline. As the blade scraped at my scalp, we chatted about tattoos I’d gotten in the past. We sized down from the first print he had made, and then he carefully peeled a purple outline onto my skin. He handed me a small mirror that reflected into a big mirror on the wall so that I could see the placement. I told him I liked it. He instructed me to stretch one arm out past my head and rest my cheek on it, lying on my side. The tattoo took forty minutes to ink, and he spoke the whole time. He asked me about myself, about school, about the tattoo’s meaning. I tried to answer in a calm and steady voice despite the pulsating needle bouncing against my skull. Several times he praised my composure, saying that most clients who got tattooed behind their ears can’t sit very well. It wasn’t hard to understand why. When he was done, he told me to take my time getting up. I ignored his advice, pushing up fast and immediately regretting my choice. The sudden absence of vibration on my head left my vision blurry, and I felt lightheaded as I walked back to the waiting area to pay. The person at the register was bubbly and asked loudly if I loved my new ink. I did, and told them so, paid and tipped Ian. I walked out onto the streets of my childhood, my new ink still buzzing quietly. – MN, right hip – My favorite tattoo was inked in Minnesota. A cold Thursday night in December, I arrived at a brightly lit studio in Minneapolis. I was a few minutes early, and sat on a very hard bench in the waiting area. My artist was finishing up with another client, so I pored over the design I’d asked for again. The appointment didn’t start for another forty minutes. When my artist finally came over and said she was ready for me, she seemed annoyed. I showed her the design and she scowled at me, snatching up her iPad and scribbling. She asked me if I had drawn it myself, which I had. After some more silent drawing, she held the iPad toward me. She had taken my (admittedly unskilled) design and created a much better tattoo. Her lines were clean, the shape gentle. I thanked her, she sighed. I wanted the tattoo on my hip, but because of the weather I’d worn sweatpants over my shorts. She rolled her eyes as I took off my sweatpants, pointing out that I could keep one of the legs on if I wanted to. I took the suggestion. When we sized the tattoo, she gave me three options. I picked the middle one, and she placed the outline on my hip. I walked, half-sweatpantsed, to the mirror and watched how the design moved with me. I loved it. I got up onto the table, lying on my side as she instructed. She inked in silence, except for a frustrated question about whether I was holding my breath. I had been, without realizing it, and tried to slowly exhale without annoying her further. When it was finished, my new ink looked delicate and natural on my skin. It is still the best tattoo I have. I carefully pulled the leg of my sweatpants back on over the wrapped ink. As I walked back into the Minnesota snow, my hip pinched with each step.

Two-Day Trip Home

Elaine Rand
November 6, 2025

There’s a new fence in the yard where the trellis once kissed the ground, a padlock on the gate in the alley left by an admirer or a forgetful biker. The front door of the house is newly painted navy blue, but the latch still sticks. An assortment of sunscreen bottles, displaced from the back porch, live in the garage alongside the dead dog’s bed, which has been inherited by my parents’ new one. Sunscreen spread on skin, bug spray interrupted by the sound of barking. I throw the puppy a ball, and she runs around the periphery of the yard, still chasing something invisible long after she has caught it in her mouth. Once, we pitched a tent here, but the pea popped up beneath my back. The tent’s been lost for a decade now. Dirt on the lawn chairs, dirt under fingernails, plastic sacks of mulch stacked tall. A smear of Indiana soil on the back steps to be powerwashed come next year. Inside the house, hairballs nestle in the gap between the refrigerator and the linoleum. The countertop is home to packets of tuna, a plastic Brita pitcher covered in hard water film, recalled pistachios yet to be thrown away. On the wall hangs the prim calendar, which still reads “March” in June. On the floor, WD-40 and Clorox wipes share real estate with cans of wet food and salmon dog treats for brain health. I can hear the nettles rattling outside. They’re strewn along the berm so the puppy can’t romp without getting her short legs caught. Through the window, there’s the redbud that sprouted where the garden patch used to be, more tenacious than the tomatoes. It towers over the ghosts of withered vines, the home-farming love fest brief and barely remembered. There is honor in an intact ear, one without the cartilage pierced—my mother said so long ago. But is there honor in an ear that burns? Both of mine turn bright when someone’s grandma asks me if I’m single. She showed my picture to her son. Lucky that breathing fire with a closed mouth leaves the tongue’s flames extinguished. I smile and deflect, teeth thick with ash. Tomorrow, I will drive away, “Wide Open Spaces” on the stereo. No flat land precipice to fall from anymore. The voices haven’t changed. No new timbres, no unexpected inflections, only the occasional quiet indignity. My shadow informs the conversations. Hello to the teenage neighbor I babysat when she was three and I was 12. Hello to my best friend’s brother, who has forgotten my name. Hello to the photo of great-aunts Elaine and Madeline on the mantle. Goodbye to the swimming pool by my elementary school; I used to leap into the water again and again. Goodbye to the cornfield, razed to build a strip mall, and the strip mall, minced and bulldozed to make room for a high rise. Goodbye to the uncertainty that once roiled inside me in the neighborhood where I used to live. I’ve juiced every drop I can from this place. When I take a sip, I taste only the dregs. Two days ago, I boiled soba noodles and cut hot peppers and cilantro for lunch, snapping carrots in half as men sprayed the dead trees outside with red paint and ran the chainsaw. Today, the radio on the porch plays a couple seconds ahead of the one in the living room, the sponsorship message echoing as it sings: “Committed to building a more just, verdant, and peaceful world.”

A Barely Legal Guide to Seasonal Waitressing

On restaurant work and gender relations
October 31, 2025

During your first shift, you will be sentenced to folding silverware into napkins. A test to see if you’re cut out for repetition, the practice will soon become ritual. Take refuge in this menial task on days when your coworkers commit to telling and retelling their recent sexual escapades. There’s no earthly reason why you should know that your middle-aged boss has a penchant for older women. Innocently enough, a bartender at your restaurant may slip you gifts: kombucha, a work of bell hooks, a bracelet—your relationship will meander into allegory. Proceed with caution. When asked how he filled his day, the same bartender might tell you that he “sipped espresso, smoked a cigar, and watched a snail eat a leaf.” When retelling the story to your friends, you will have to insist through giggles that the quotation is direct. Don’t tell them the other things he said. If your manager is acting a little erratic today, he is likely on the come down from an unsavory adventure he took after closing last night. Watch for signs including an increased volume of arguments with the kitchen, palpitating eyelids, and a lowered physical inhibition. He will spill while clumsily showcasing how to pour a margarita with one hand, but beam at his tricks, and he may tip you out of the bartender’s pool. You have precisely one week to get in the good graces of the kitchen staff. Spark conversation in whatever broken Spanish you can eek out. Laugh at the jokes that translate awkwardly into English. Take pride when the head chef calls you “mija.” First uneasy at his kindness, you will soon determine his intentions unsullied. Soldier through incessant teasing along the lines of Hey, remember me? It is best practice to lie and nod. Apparently, the type of men who take their dates to upscale patio bars are also the type to flirt with their barely legal waitresses right in front of them. A hairball sensation will begin to fester in your gut, one that you will fight back into your esophagus when you laugh at his unfunny jokes and nod when he makes no sense. Don’t cough it up. The new 20-year-old chef may slyly pull you aside during rush and ask for a shot of tequila. You will for once find it pathetically endearing—the bartenders will not. He will be fired within three days, and you will feel inexplicably at fault. He wore star patches to cover his pimples, patterning his face with innocence. As the months progress, you will notice a disturbing, albeit useful, pattern. Some days you find yourself crunched for time, hair frizzed from bike rides and lake dips in the summer warmth. Other days, you will bask in the silence of your sun-spotted car—curls tamed, lips painted, cheeks expertly flushed. Take a moment to rehearse a well-placed smile in the rearview mirror. On these evenings, customers will be much more forgiving when the kitchen is running behind. Bat your eyelashes for an extra 5% and don’t think about Gloria Steinem. Whiskey, sugar, bitters, rock, twist. After countless slow hours spent leaning against the bar, you will learn through osmosis to make an Old Fashioned. Carajillo, Sex on the beach, Negroni, Lemon ball: your new party tricks. You never touched the bottle. You never crossed the line. You never would. As the paychecks roll in, guilt will thaw into acquiescence. Exhale your bitterness as the hairball in your stomach softens into the lining. You will exit the summer with an outlook half empty, but a wallet half full.

Buried Alive – Screams of a Stifled Voice

Ava Satterthwaite
October 23, 2025

10:32 AM: drilling, grinding, sawdust coats my tongue. i am watching a film – a monochrome mouth moves in silence. a man shouts through the static, his words foreign, unintelligible. the reel flickers. barbed ribbons of cornflower blue obscure the scene, coiling around cranes and metal hooks, colliding with rubber-gloved hands, cutting between construction men in blue. is this show… interactive? i’m in the viewing room, on the table. back and forth and back again. 10:33 AM: the drill closes in. i am concrete: jaw locked, limbs tethered to the table. unable to move or breathe. unable to scream or flail or convince the construction men i am still alive. an entire orchestra of stars shine above me, humming a metallic shrill and showering me inan ostentatious sterilized haze. the conductor calls, “instruments sterilized… bone saw….” screeching. more shrilling. a sudden stabbing sensation, a teeming mouthful of metallic crimson. i flinch – this band sucks. i smack the cold leather below me; the curtains close on cue. 8:29 AM: “No allergies to medication? No food since 12 AM? OK, good… Well, I recommend a Vidocin waiver… She’ll have some soren— no? Fine. Insurance card, please.” I sink back into a tattered cloth chair, gaze fixed on a 1980s Wheel of Fortune rerun. Between Sajak’s comb-over, the wooden TV stand swelling with matted wires, and the stiff faux cactus in the corner, I feel like I've fallen into some neon-crazed, cobwebbed wrinkle of time. Mom offers the card and sits beside me, muttering under her breath as she scribbles a second, third, fourth signature on various forms. 8:47 AM: I take shallow breaths, clammy hands trembling as I scan the waiting room. Phrase: Five Words, 21 Letters W A _ I N G _ P F R O M A _ A D D R _ A M “Ava, come follow me.” How fitting. I walk toward the nurse and exhale as Sajak’s laugh and the dense smell of mildew dwindle into oblivion. Soon, I’ll be dreaming, then delirious with a mouthful of gauze. Soon – it’ll all be over. 9:00 AM: The door creaks. A man in starch white enters – his tall, refined frame harsh amid cartoonish bunnies and fields of flowers sketched on the walls. His smile is courteous, if stiff. “Morning, Ava. I hear you’re our wisdom teeth case today. Junior in high school?” Still scanning the sallow sunflowers behind him, I nod: “Yeah… starting college visits soon.” “Big milestone! License too, then?” He stretches into some latex gloves with such vehemence I wince. “Hopefully. I keep failing the parallel park.” “Ah, double freedom,” he retorts, voice now muffled behind a creased blue mask, “It’ll come.” I hesitate, then: “Um – one thing. I’m a natural redhead, and I read we sometimes need more anesthesia? I think I do, after all the cavities and root canals I’ve been half-numbed for.” I smile sheepishly, tracking cracks in the tiles beneath my swinging legs. “I don’t want to feel a thing.” More amused than concerned, he snickers; “You want the good stuff, huh? Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” A feverish flush overtakes me, knuckles whitening as my fresh French manicure claws into the armrests. I purse my lips to nothing but the echo of crinkling paper and suffocating smell of antiseptic; the door slams before I can mumble another word. 9:05 AM: The room is heavier now – harsher. Even the fluorescent overheads seem fiercer, like electrified clouds infested with hail, enshrouded with an acute sense of dread. I half-expect the bunnies to flee the fields and burrow somewhere warmer, somewhere sheltered from the commotion. The storm brews swifter as I look down to two cold hands – mottled with bruises and blue veins like marble – still fastened to the vinyl-covered armchairs. I was Rose in The Titanic: the bitter Atlantic circled on all sides, but by God, I would hold on to that drifting wood, that stiff vinyl. If this room was a hailstorm, these armrests were my wreckage: a connection to the concrete, to solid land – a lifeline averting an ocean of fear from swallowing me whole. “They’re professionals,” I reassure myself, “trained doctors who do this all the time. I’ll be OK.” I’d identified five items I could see (bunnies, sunflowers, Purell hand sanitizer mounted to the wall, some knives and hooks on a steel, cafeteria-esque dish – the scariest school lunch you’ve ever seen) and two of four items I could touch (the torn sleeves of an old, moth-eaten sweater and the vinyl film on the armrests, of course) when a nurse knocks. She heads for the Purell and asks for an arm. I feel a quick prick, intentionally averting my eyes from the needle to resume the senses’ ritual (two more items to touch… could I fiddle with the IV line? brush the ribbed adhesive at the insertion site? no, that’d be weird). She smiles, gaze flickering to my still-trembling hands, “This’ll calm you down a little, sweetie, OK?” I offer a grateful nod. 9:10 AM: 28. In five minutes, I’d watched the monitor sink from 102 to 83 to 65 (Goldilocks’ zone, breath looser and mind mellower) to the headache-inducing 40, mind-bending 34 (when the bunnies stirred and a breeze made the sunflowers dance – ears smothered in the sound of a million little teeth munching on grass), further and further down until 28 BPM. At 28, neon snow bathes the bunnies, the room an old screen obscured in static. I envision the cactus, the Wheel! of! Fortune! theme, a crinkled People magazine (June 2000 edition, Jennifer Aniston on the cover) and mourn the naiveté of 30 minutes earlier. The tiles teeter as the room tornadoes around me; I seize an armchair with such force the whole chair rocks. Screw Rose, I am Jack: watching myself drown from the hail-ridden clouds above. I sob in slow-motion as my frostbitten hands unfetter from the armrests – Jack’s wooden door unreachable. I am desolate. I am defenseless from fate. A handheld mirror lies slanted on the counter beside me. I search its reflection for what seems like hours. I search this ashen face I once knew for some shred of life – a sniffle of the nose, a curl of the mouth – but to no avail. For a second, I wonder if I’ll die in the smeared reflection: a finale akin only to Narcissus’. After all, 28 isn’t so far from flatlined. Then, 28 climbs back to 33, 34, 42, the sacred 65. I’m not sure what time it is now – or whether it’s been hours, weeks, decades, seconds. I sure as hell am not calmer, though. 9:12 AM: The nurse returns. I ask her the time, what’s in the IV, “will I be under soon?”, each word clear and well-articulated. She’s startled – horrified: this, apparently, was not the desired result. “Wow! I’ve never seen someone so lucid on Midazolam. I– I must’ve halved the dose somehow.” Before I can remind her I’m less reactive to sedatives – before I can tell that snobbish doctor I told you so – she rushes over. “Well, I guarantee this one will work. You’ll be knocked until it’s time for home and ice cream.” She hastily injects another needle, “Count from ten for me.” 10… 9… 8… 7…. Curtains close. A POST-OP REPORT: Recorded 10/02/2022, 11:51 AM EST Patient Ava J. Satterthwaite, 16F, experienced intraoperative awareness and partial temporary paralyzation during wisdom teeth extraction. At 10:32 AM, Dr. Smith [real name omitted] observed REM, increased heart rate, breathing rate, and sweating. Additional anaesthesia was administered at 10:33 AM. Prior to operation, patient expressed concern of a potential need for additional anesthesia. Patient reacted unusually to pre-operative conscious sedation, appearing tense and alert rather than lethargic. Patient was administered a typical dose of anesthesia for her size and exhibited anticipated reaction in due time. There is no explanation as to why this dose was not effective throughout the procedure, but patient has not mentioned recollection of said episode – we do not intend to inform her or her mother, to ensure smooth mental recovery post-procedure. Patient exhibited minimal post-procedure reaction, displaying an immediate spatial awareness and producing well-articulated speech. Patient refused a wheelchair and walked to car without swaying or difficulty… indicating provided anesthetic dose may have been insufficient. Quick metabolization of anesthesia was recorded on her chart for future reference. NOV 05, 2022 | 3:02 AM: I am thrust awake, rattled for the third time this week with the acute sensation of suffocation. I feel smooth silk bedsheets crowded in clusters between my clammy hands and exhale. It’s 30℉ outside – bedroom window adorned in chromatic streaks of snowflakes and steam – but I am sweltered. A dense bead falls from my drenched forehead onto the satin. I drink water and stare into the darkness until my shallow breath has thickened. I’ve been buried alive. Again. This ritual started somewhere around mid-October. Initially, I attributed the nightmares to the stacks of wool and fleece and fur I practically drowned myself in every night. So, I switched to silk. For a week, I dozed under one thin linen blanket to the cadence of chattering teeth, waking still at 3AM, smothered, violently shivering. Sometime close to Halloween – when the evening’s installation featured a cornflower blue man and two matted bunnies – I connected the dots. I have lived in fear of doctors since: terrified to miss a stair, catch a cold, drink too much soda – terrified to live.

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