It turned.
The news was grave and my stomach twisted further, deeper. My mother's death became my hangover, and I grabbed my rotted gut and boarded a Greyhound. Turning the fat as I exhaled, it was my hope to cough out the specter of the morning's liquor.
In Idaho, an 8-year-old pulled a hypodermic needle from the station's trash can and pricked the little finger of her left hand. Her mother, an obese smoker with a streak of shit running up the back of her purple t-shirt, erupted. My head felt like a bully in a tornado. Pure murder.
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