Every other night I make my way through noise and singing beggers to my table in Japanese Snacks, and I give the lady there a ten dollar bill. She gives me my change and my terriaki chicken, and always agrees to my comments regarding the weather. I only eat half of what I order, saving the rest for the next day. Week after week and year after year, like the harsh scraping clicks of a metronome, terriaki chicken keeps my time in a ritual that is at once suffocating, cleansing, and deeply calming.

Seven days ago, the block of ice that used to be my freezer allowed something to grow on my half serving of chicken from the previous day, and before I knew what had happened, I was in a hospital bed with salt water dripping into my arm through an IV. I thought being poisoned would turn me off from chicken forever, but after only three days of soup and crackers, the mesmerizing comfort of routine had enticed me back. The lady's husband asked how I had been. I said I was fine. I told the lady that all the rain was unfortunate. She agreed, and brought me my chicken.