And she knitted. A long, magnificent tapestry of flesh that tangled with each part. “Oh, Richard,” she dithered. “Oh, Richard, I just don’t know about this. I feel like I should just stop.” He was a good son, and told her what some want to hear, some probably don’t: “No, mother, it’s beautiful. We need Gladys. Don’t we, mother?” She kept knitting and knitting and it coiled hideously and the men and women outside the window found it wretched but still she knitted, and a moss-green pickup truck drove by, honking at the commotion, honking, honking, and Gladys knitted and began to blather, “Oh Richard, Richard.” Filth dotted this room. Filth dotted Gladys, her skin pierced by needles, her tissue a mere thread. She felt gassy. “Will this ever stop, Richard?” He asked her what, and she shook her head, hazy and confused, not knowing.

Anything.