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On the sixteenth day of a solo trip through Tokyo, a hidden market stall offered something that felt like a gift. It looked like an orange, but it felt like feverish flesh. Now, twelve days later in a quiet Philadelphia apartment, the thing on the desk is growing. It has developed a face that watches, a mouth that breathes, and jointed legs that tap against the wood in the dead of night. Every hour it expands, and every hour the narrator’s own body begins to mirror its grotesque proportions. The transaction is nearly complete.