As I watch the liquid soak into the fibers, I struggle between contradictory impulses: to try to make things wetter still, by ripping out a seam or two, or to retreat to a spot where I can suture the leak shut. Then I remember how it felt when I was three, holding the roll to my cheek until the whole thing was soaked through with my blood. Later, when they'd strapped me into the straightjacket, I watched as they haphazardly sewed me back together. I was screaming. The metaphor, you see, was me.