Written While Getting Choked

"It'll be that way sometimes, no telling when," said Doc Harris as he examined the scans with drippy, poached-egg eyes.

"It'll feel like there's a golfball in there, or maybe a sea urchin, or an old dusty Victrola you forgot to take down to Mercer's Pawn Shop."

"How long?" asked Harry, consciously avoiding locking up with those rolling sight organs, which seemed to emit small hissing noises as they settled on him.

"Four, maybe five decades...six at the outside."

Harry put his hat back on. It was noon, and he hated the rain.