Omar was hunting mice. At least he thought he was; turned out to be only one. Anyway, Omar was hunting this mouse when he broke his wrist, caught his wedding ring on something inside the mouse hole: an electric socket. It shocked him, sure. But the serious damage was done when he attempted to yank his arm out the narrow archway after the nefarious furry creature started nibbling on his nails. He could hear the bones crack as the mouse hurdled his veins, sprinting across the living room floor.
“Where’s your wedding ring?” was the first thing Karla asked when she met him in the emergency room.
“He took it,” Omar said.
“Who?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, just swallowed Vicodin as the wife watched the doctor reset his wrist.
“Have you been biting your nails?” she asked. 
Omar didn’t hear her. He was in a different world; a distant planet.
“I want a divorce,” she said.
The nurses looked over at Karla, the surgeon furrowed his brow, cast a splint on Omar’s wrist. Sweat trickled down his hairy arm. The air grew thick and solemn.
“Everyone thinks I married a terrorist anyway,” she said.
Omar absorbed the words slowly, as if they were drifting out from a deep hole in a cave.
“Before the attacks on the World Trade Center it was glamorous–being a foreigner’s princess–an exotic treasure.”
Omar disappeared into the triage curtain; the simple pattern of layered lines against cheap heavy fabric. He counted the circular holes in the mesh–lost count around three hundred and sixty five. His eyes gave out, followed the mouse as he lost consciousness. Ended up in the intricate maze behind the walls; labyrinth of rotting cheese, chunks stolen from traps, peanut butter smeared on the infinite secret corridors of his palace. There were termites and maggots everywhere, but the mouse was undisturbed, not the least bit perturbed by this odd visitor or the squalor he lived in.