The humid air makes Jessie think she’s wearing a second skin. She tosses in bed, throws off the covers and wishes she could writhe and slide to shed the layer and come out new, glistening. To discard the rubbish that is her life, she makes a gash. Just one thin line creates a breach. Blood oozes. It’s what she does to slither free from the parasites. And what she leaves behind like an old sock turned inside out. But. The humid air makes Jessie think she’s wearing a second skin.