I dreamed of being the little boy
getting the amputation. I also had,
separately, a vivid flash dream (right in the middle of work) of being Malcolm
looking in horror at the grid-pattern stamped, bloody and infected, into the
child’s hand. (The grid resembled my
time-card graphs, documenting all of my overtime, which often left my wrists
and hands in pain.) I constructed all
the rest around these dreams.