It's my job to tell you what happened. I got this job because I am simple. People who are in love with themselves are simple because their world is circumscribed by themselves. Their skin and the soft fat underneath it define the boundaries of what they care about. Their sentences are loops. But I am simple in a different way. I am not some endlessly cycling narcissist. My sentences don't loop; they go forward so I am uniquely qualified out of everyone else in this trailer park, this chunk of damp mossy paradise, to say what happened. Well, first off, I should qualify that no one else here is in love with themselves. But some of them do live in a universe constricted by pain. They try to strike out past their skin, past its map of pimples and scars and patchy hair but pain pulls them back in. It's kind of like being in love with yourself except pain is different than love. Maybe they peak out and see pregnant spiders or moldy cheese and reach back for their pain, that hot little loadstone, and are consoled by it. Maybe they say, shit, it's scary out there.