Leg  Panel the color of raw  steak discoloring  once it’s exposed to the air  slides on its runner, crosscutting fibres  bunched into fascicles sheathed with elastin  that shift like amoebas, contract, clinch,  then dilate again.  Panel  after panel,  runners underfoot and  thickness of panels decreasing.  A click,  something catches.  Or caught,  something releases  and scrapes to the opposite wall.  This fleshly corridor  can’t go on much longer:  the panels can get no thinner.  The thought of hiding  once I’m out,  the reason not to hide.  Never did I present agoraphobia,  or tendencies . . . say,  vampiric.  No symptoms of anemia.  Never was a bleeder,  in any sense.  I have to keep my nerve.  It’s all that separates me from  my surroundings.  My leg  feels . . . feels like.  Prologue    Taking life  one rescue  animal  at…

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