They shaved half her head so they could break her skull open and they scooped out the bad stuff inside.
I typed those words. Me. Just now. I did. Really. I typed those words and then I got up and I paced around the room.
I stared out the window. I saw a little dog straining on a fat man’s leash, trying to go meet a daredevil squirrel. I saw a Monte Carlo thud by with a flat tire and a spiderweb windshield and no apparent driver at all. I saw flowers. Me. Just now. I did.
I thought about some things – things that were not Dana and were not brains and were not that sentence I’d just typed. I tried to drum “Moby Dick” on the wall with two jumbo-sized orange highlighters. It sounded alright.
Then I sat back down and I looked up at the screen. That sentence was still there, just like it was when I left it.