To trap the angels he tucks each edge of the blanket under his back, begins to breathe as hard as he can. All day he has eaten eggs. Hundreds of dozens of eggs. His fingers rake his cheek and the sides of his chin, slide down the puffing of sweat on his neck. Every swarming angel dries in his breath. His crescent fingernails, his white-tipped fingernails push into his bellybutton, the fingernails sharp on each tremor finger. The angels screech the sound of metal-he parts the muscle, ripples the organs. The angels stiffen, then snap. His fingers wrap the soapy hilt of spine. Snub of ghost nosing its shell like a word.