Orin's Phoenix morning (Depression and Anhedonia)
Home with the team, no matter how high the AC or how thin the sheet, Orin wakes with his own impression sweated darkly into the bed beneath him, slowly drying all day to a white salty outline just slightly off from the week’s other faint dried outlines, so his fetal-shaped fossilized image is fanned out across his side of the bed like a deck of cards, just overlapping, like an acid trail or timed exposure. […] He sits there in dumb animal pain. He has a mustache of sweat. […] The sun like a sneaky keyhole view of hell.
Context
The dread's residue made visible: a week of identical fetal outlines fanned across the sheet, the depressive morning as timed exposure of the same body in the same posture — and even the Phoenix sun reads as a peephole into hell.