The thought occurs to me that Christ died of asphyxiation from having his arms above his heart, the weight of his body sagging against his diaphragm. At least I’m not upside down, but there’s goddamned small chance anyone is going to find me here before I die. Not that they would let me down even if they did come across me. The wheel is on private property, and though his name isn’t on the deed everyone knows who owns it. They’d avert their eyes, pretend not to see me. They’d figure I deserved it.
And they’d be right, of course.