As he came to, his head thumping to an excruciating  internal drum solo, the first thing John noticed was the dust catching  in the sunlight from the living room window. He found himself lying in  his arm chair, his entire body aching. His son sat on the couch,  showered and in a fresh set of clothes, his legs kicked up on the coffee  table as he watched Saturday morning cartoons.

          "Nick?"

          "Morning, dad," he said, stretching back into the couch,  his shirt pulled taut over his massive belly, the fat once again  bubbling out from a shirt now at least two sizes too small.

          "You think I could pick up some new clothes, today? These don't fit anymore."

          "Sure," John said, shaking his head, trying to clear it.  The drum solo intensified. Everything seemed so normal, the previous  night nothing more than a vivid nightmare now vanished in a bad  hangover. "Yeah, yeah, we can do that," he continued, still staring at  his son's exposed belly.

          Suddenly it quivered, and shifted, something big pressing  out against the skin. Nicholas leaned forward, grabbing a handful of  shredded meat and bone from a plate sitting on the couch beside him. He  shoveled the bloody concoction into his mouth.

          "Thanks, dad." He offered the plate to his father. "Hungry?"

          John recoiled, trying not to think about what his son was  eating. More he recoiled from his own reaction. His stomach rumbled and  he realized that he was hungry; hungrier than he had ever been in his life.

          He tried to fight the urge, but instead found himself  accepting the offered plate. He began to eat and something inside him  twisted and turned and for a moment he thought he heard a quiet voice  speaking in his head, urging him to eat even more. Again, John tried to  resist, but he couldn't. He ate another bite, and another, the drumming  of his head softening as his own tears began to fall.