The sun rose in Harlan. Some awoke, and some were just getting to rest. Jack Ballard was having a series of nightmares. Endless repetitions of the same dull annoyance dreams he always had. Not being able to find his shoes in the morning, losing his keys, waking up late, argument with Mark, not wearing pants in public.
  --But now they were ending differently; his eyes rolling out of his skull and plopping on the floor like juicy grapes, his ribcage collapsing in on itself, viscous fluid pouring out of his ears. Hours passed.