In a daze, I can hear myself grunting and, well, kind of squealing with my mouth closed. My calls for help sound more like somebody left a dog tied up for too long. Only I’m the animal and I did this to myself. The latest seizure is over. Meaning the next one is due any minute. I don’t see any end to it. Jim is still gone doing his traveling-doctor thing and the only people I know in Eden must think I’m a pathetic coward. Last night, with alcohol-fueled bravery, I decided to try and turn on my Zenith. Tried to find myself. But what I found out was who I am with a broken implant. A spastic invalid. On top of that, I’m hungover. A nasty goose egg throbs on my shin in time with my heart. I got it when my leg slammed into the almost empty vodka bottle, shooting it across the room and under the couch. The pain in my shin joins the dull aching cramp in my jaw and neck and the rest of my skinned-up body. That bottle hurt me a lot more than I hurt it.
