Head on pillow, box resting on his stomach, McDonovan presses his tongue on the crystal until it’s angled against the gums, directly at the roots of his bottom front teeth. He pushes it in, and the sound, like the tearing of cheesecloth, rings his head in multi-colored concentric circles. He sees an image of himself, age seven in the farm, kissing Mom goodnight, the puppy barking nearby.