The baby was under the couch. How had the baby fit under there, anyway? It didn’t really matter, did it, as long as the baby was wailing like a banshee and needed to be rescued. Or changed, or fed, or something. Which one? No way to know. So he rescued, cleaned, changed, and fueled. Ears ringing with echoing cries of a now-sleeping baby, he flumphed on the couch, just a half-hour before an impromptu babytrap. He sighed. Closed his eyes. Squeezed them tight, then dragged himself from the couch and into his bathroom.

One injection, two supplements, fifteen minutes later a third, then thirty minutes later a fourth with food, with the oats and lean meats and steamed vegetables that did the least to irritate his innards. Now his ears rang and his stomach was sour, if less sour than it would be had he eaten the grilled cheese sandwich that had called out to him from his roommate’s side of the fridge.

Again he wondered when he’d lost control. Had he ever really had control? The choices that were before him were clear: obey or suffer. Sometimes he chose suffer.

So perhaps he did have a choice.