Richard Foltz

Leviathan

He set down the Medegan insulated pitcher in the passenger seat, the kind you get in the hospital that’s usually filled with crushed ice and a smidge of water because it was a few inches too big for the cup holder, the crazy accordion-style straw sticking out like an austere antenna. His ex-wife had stolen the pitcher for him from a hospital, despite saying it was weird he wanted it when he’d had his gallbladder removed. He sighed, taking in a long, calming pull of polluted and fart-tainted Toyota car seat air, and pushed the button to start the car. The sound of loose metal rattled as the car sprang to life and he was off.