I use my index finger to poke the soft lining of tissue around me. Unfortunately, it isn’t the kind of tissue you stick inside gift bags. It isn’t even the tissue that feels cuddly-soft on your raw nose when you have a cold.

What it is is a bit damp. The liquid around me tingles almost to the point of burning. I can’t say the space is cozy, as much as distressingly confined. Hell, I can’t even tell you which leg that is poking over my left shoulder. The numbness slithering through both my hips isn’t the happiest of feelings. Pins and needles. Daggers and knives.

See, I’d like to explain to you just how I got in here. Unfortunately, all I remember is being swallowed by a bear. It’s just lucky I’m so limber or else this position I’m in would be a lot more uncomfortable.

Well, it’s not luck, really. It’s my job.

I manage to wiggle my hand enough to feel around the pocket of my sweater. My hand encounters a piece of paper. Not matches. I wonder what… Oh, yes, that’s right. A dry cleaning receipt. Isn’t that the funniest thing? No. No, it isn’t, and I’ll tell you why. Because stomach acid doesn’t come out of cashmere sweaters. That’s why.

Dry cleaners.

Bears!

The stench of digestion begins tickling my nose, a sour smell. At one point I swear I almost throw up. I wonder what will happen if I do. I can’t seem to come to the conclusion that it will be a good thing, but then… Aren’t I throw up that hasn’t come up yet?

Oh. I should be throw up. Do bears throw up? Maybe if I wiggle around enough. Pushing at the wall of stomach doesn’t do much. I think I might have heard the bear burp.