I hadn’t eaten in forty-eight hours. Weak with hunger, I hobbled to the kitchen, clutching a can of tomato soup in a death-grip. My vision warped the house into a nightmarish twilight zone of twisted architecture and impossible angles, but I ignored it all in the bee-line for the microwave. The can had a pull-top lid, but I didn’t have the energy to be grateful. I wrenched it off with all the precision my apathetic muscles could provide and poured it into a bowl. A bowl. Where did the bowl...