When she got back from the emergency animal hospital, she decided the painkillers would work better if washed down with Crown Royal. She thought maybe she could OD and wind up in hog heaven. She wasn’t sold on the idea of rejoining her dearly departeds, but it couldn’t be worse than the trailer park.

But that wasn’t what happened: what happened was she found herself making a long-distance call, hoping he wouldn’t answer. Was it a booty call if he was on the far side of the world? He was the best lover she’d had—better than Kermie or any of the guest stars she’d slept with. She’d called him “Sex Machine” in her diary, or “SM” for short. You wouldn’t have thunk it to look at him, but he was Dionysus in the boudoir.

The phone clicked to life. Christ, someone was home. She pressed her numb snout to the glass living room table and prayed she had a wrong number.

“Meep?” he said. She didn’t respond, and he began shouting on his end, “Meep mp mip mmmm mr! Mrmmrm?” Sex Machine was about to hang up when she spoke.