Behind St. John’s Pediatric Hospital, a crowd of red-eyed men and women gathered around a large metal box, watching as Amanda Nunn fed the Waynerator+ the fuel it required to create electricity:

“You a beaver allergic to wood,” Amanda said, her voice hoarse. “Call that a dam shame.”

My sister Mindy recently hosted the type of party where acquaintances posing as friends compliment you while simultaneously judging your life decisions and aesthetics. The dialogue is predictably catty. “It’s so ambitious to take on a fixer. You must not be too busy at work.” “I love these floor-to-ceiling windows. What a view! Must be a nightmare to clean.”

Charles Bronson’s corpse lay at the feet of four men in the Rest-Go back room. Their chanting covered the sound of the freezer humming to keep the ice cream sandwiches from melting.

I walked into a pole one sunny afternoon. It was the makings of me. Never saw the thing. One of them tall, slender, grey yokes that melt into the background if you’re not paying attention. I felt like it did something to me. Whether temporary or permanent, I wasn’t sure. But change was afoot. I could feel it. Could end up with a job by the end of the day, I reckoned. Which frightened the life out of me.

It happens fast.

First you refuse to eat anything with a face.

Milk, eggs, and cheese soon follow.