Almost nine in the morning, windows open, the outside air already moving through the RV, and rswfire had four hours of sleep behind him — maybe. He begins with the video. Not an apology for it, not a retraction. He posted something the night before from a field he doesn't always occupy, and he addresses it the way a technician addresses a reading: he was feeling that way, so he shared it, and he thought it was universal. Everybody has days like that, or nights like that. He states that he explores every facet of himself, that most days he loves being alone and absolutely loves it, and that there are days he simply feels alone. He names abandonment, rejection, self-worth as things he has struggled with. Then he moves on. The disclosure is logged, not dwelt in.
Bailey interrupts. Fifteen pounds of cat, jumping onto the platform, wanting attention, and rswfire narrates him mid-sentence — what do you want, Bailey — before returning to the count of hours he didn't sleep. The cat will be left alone today. It is a busy day.
The smoking is over twenty-four hours gone, maybe thirty-six, he isn't certain. He is vaping heavily and wearing a patch, and he notes the patch is a step two when he probably needs a step one — a dosage mismatch flagged and set aside as a thing to source. He has consulted ChatGPT about the timeline and the health benefits and reports back the British study: ninety-five percent less harmful. He tracks the cravings as two distinct signals — no deep chemical pull, because the vape covers it, but a habitual one that arrives on schedule. After dinner. Getting up this morning. Both times the thought came first and the correction followed it: oh, I don't smoke anymore. He says he thinks he might actually be done with it. He says that would be wonderful.
The piercing failed overnight. The little ball fell out and he got it back in, and he is surprised he got it back in, and there is a Band-Aid over it for now. He will look for hoop earrings today. It goes on the list with the shower he desperately needs and the store and the drive.
Then the bed frame, which is the day's real diagnostic. He has not been able to sleep in two months. ChatGPT says it's probably the frame, and he agrees, and he shows it — the foam he put underneath, the cut down the middle, the offset he estimates at an eighth to a quarter inch. He pauses on the number itself: I don't know how much a quarter of an inch is, it's not a lot, right, it's like a small amount, right. And the answer, relayed back from the machine, is that a quarter of an inch is a big deal for sleep. His back hurts for about an hour each morning and then it goes away. He is sleeping directly on the comforter on top of the bed topper because the sheets he ordered went to his parents' house and he is not going there. He notes, almost in passing, that this stuff never mattered to him before.
And the rocking. The RV rocks — every time Bailey jumps up or down, the whole chassis moves. He owns four pads for the stabilizers and has them placed, but he has been thinking the placement might be wrong, that the ground under the stabilizers might simply not be stable where they sit. So the plan forms in real time: get under there this week, find better spots, redistribute the four. He hopes it helps. He notes again that it does rock.
The dentures are the last component. He has them; he could put them in at any time. He wants the dentist to reline them first — he describes the material without having the word for it, the stuff they pack in so the fit is right, which lasts a long time without being permanent — because the implants changed the fit and nothing has been adjusted since. He has not worn them in three months, has never really worn them, and states plainly that he wouldn't like wearing them. Gag reflex. Horrible thing to have. Then the forward projection, delivered lightly: next time you see me you'll see me with teeth. That'll be interesting.
Ahead of him is the DST — an hour and a half out, an hour and a half back — and he is glad he is going, and he would love to get it over with. He has been parked here long enough to see three months coming and he does not want three months. He is ready to move on. He does not want to be stationary this long. The frame is a quarter inch off, the chassis rocks, the ball fell out of the piercing, the teeth don't fit yet, the patch is the wrong step — and every one of them is a component logged, sourced, and scheduled. What he is building this morning is a vehicle and a body that can leave.