An aggressive Thai massage. A dubious can of cheap sardines. An elaborate meal of slow-cooker beef cooked in Rendang spices, then served with Japanese ramen and kelp broth. Four eggs for himself (The protein! As if 350 grams of beef wasn’t enough). Half a bag of spinach wilted in hot oil.

Bent over the toilet without his glasses, he had the horrifying thought that he’d literally vomited up his own guts. Then he saw it was only the spinach — undigested, black, and slick as kelp out of water. The nausea came in waves, and each one had a lesson, had a question.

Lesson: Don’t be afraid to hunch over the bowl as they do in movies- it is, after all, a $3,700 toilet bowl- so that you can contain all the gory spatter.

Question: How much beef did he really eat?? Every vomit seemed enough to fill a small bowl. That would be $14.99 please.

And he was cold, deathly cold and sleepy. But also vastly relieved. Because for once, there was absolutely nothing he could do, like for real. And nothing else mattered. His body was either healing or dying and he couldn’t tell the difference. Nor cared. For once in a very long time, he surrendered to just accepting it, to being at peace with it. It helped that every cell in his body, every thought, was in accord towards that objective.

So he just slept with the electric blanket on at 3, with the cat nestled near his legs.