My classmates and I shiver on our little cots. Air dank and antiseptic. Windowless girls and boys formed from sour clay. DO IT FOR THE LOVE OF THE GAME squeals a fading poster, a turtle balanced on a basketball below. I Imagine us as convalescing soldiers, Deborah the phlebotomist our tireless nurse. I like missing class, any class, and I like the hollow needle, how you get to watch it disappear. Deborah tells me they’re behind on their quota today. Her turquoise rings sing as she tosses our donations into a cooler. My classmates are floating here and there, mostly fickle veined and tapping out. She asks if I could give more and when I ask how much she shrugs, says: well, maybe all of it? I think. Give her a nod. There are worse ways and worse places. I like it here. I never did before, but I like it, like this. Marsh cathedral of a high school gym. Crown of fluorescence. The lush bloat of a bag with my name on it.