Cathay’s tried sleeping in the sweaty heat of an orgy aftermath; she traded a favor to spend the night blanketed in a drawer at the morgue. She slept an hour once in a vertical wind tunnel, effectively weightless, the muted roar in her ears like the rushing of blood in the womb.
Like any addict, Cathay maintains that she’s not hurting anyone; yet every addiction has its price. One needs more or better to reach that original high, and soon her pillow is useless to her. Cathay lies awake dreaming of surgery, of submarines, of the bed where Doc Holliday died.