Lodi's been lying in bed saying his family's names, hoping they'll help him rest.

When he last slept, it was for 14 hours, dragged behind the tail of a comet, colder than a wet perch. Last week, he straddled the Byzantine Adrianople and a Yakima parking lot—one foot in each. He missed a full day.

Eventually the world goes heavy and woolen, and a blanket of sleep smothers Lodi's fitful mind. When he opens his eyes it takes him a moment of confusion to realize there are now four of them.

He panics and bolts into the dark on all fours, all sixes, his many clawed paws ignoring the pull of gravity.

Language is gone. It is molten lava—it is a stretch of sandstone and the screech of apes and the hiss of natural gas. He opens both sets of jaws and cries whale song in search of meaning. He is alive, but he is wrong—he is Canidae Equidae Mantodea Acroporidae, the heaving shadow of every living creature. He's supposed to be somewhere else.

home

i need to go home

Lodi startles awake. He feels for each of his limbs, the planes of his own face, and gasps for air. A monster is trying to talk to him.

His unease is deepened as he realizes he has turned the bed to platinum in his nightmare. He coaxes metal back to linen, and even in the privacy of his new flat, he feels inhuman. Unnatural in every way.

Wary and alone, Lodi returns to broken sleep.