Wayne’s mother looked down at his body laid out in the blaze of Caribbean sun. The muscle had shrunk back so much, and so quickly, that the skin pooled like melted wax at the joints and hollow belly. The pulse, close under the soggy flesh, pumped laboriously where it was visible at the junction of shoulder blade and neck; its rhythm one of a fish gasping just shy of the water’s edge. A network of veins twisted across his frame; a body turned inside out; tiny ropes that seemed all that held him together. She stood behind him, “I don’t want him to see the pain on my face,” she explained.