Justin Bartosh spun a soccer trophy around on its head like a top, thinking about his upcoming novel. Justin had never written a novel before, nor had he read one in several years. But he enjoyed imagining himself as a famous novelist.

The king stood over the toilet. The reluctant owner of that famous belly, that bowlful of jelly, lifted the overarching fold with two hands, exhaled, concentrated and waited for the stream to bolt from its alcove. No luck. Seconds passed, and a soreness grew in his knees.