I had the worst day today. I woke up in the orphanage and looked over at my bedmate, Jonathan, to find that he’d died of influenza in the night. It was too bad. Jonathan was a nice orphan; he never beat me with a bat like some of the others. Someone coughed in row four, and then everyone was coughing, and finally everyone died. I smelt smoke: yes, of course, the whole building was on fire.

I promptly grabbed my worn-out stuffed bear, Hives, and went for the fire escape. Unfortunately, the glass door had broken. The big jagged pieces of glass left in the doorframe had been graffitied with “Benji Hockles sucks” and “Benji Hockles is fat.” I had never noticed this graffiti, so as you can imagine, my feelings hurt. Since shoving my fat body through the broken glass in the door seemed painful and demoralizing, I snaked my way on the floor to avoid breathing in any smoke (but I breathed some in anyway) and headed to the back staircase. I threw up a few times, which was horrible, and then fell down five stairs, which broke most of my brittle bones. I was able to exit the building, but I looked a mess. Hives was covered in sick. I noticed Sally Withers from down the block waving a hanky to stop a passing police car.

“Hey Benji,” said Sally. “Your underwear is showing.”

And it was. I ran away to take cover in the woods and fix my underwear, and while I was kneeling in the leaves and having a little cry over Jonathan and all of the other orphans (and the fact that they had all thought I was fat), I spied a coiled snake that had big fangs, a rattle, and horns. The snake lunged at Hives and tore him apart viciously, then spewed some venom all over his fuzzy, empty hide and his stuffing so that I could not pick his pieces back up without dying immediately. I ran from the scene, the sight of Hives’ unbearable to behold, and fell into a bear trap, which did not take my foot — just the big toe, the one you need to walk. I yelled out in pain, rolled over onto my back, and saw a hulking madman come shooting down a tree as if it were a fire pole. He had something in his hand: a chain. When he landed, he tugged the chain, and two large bears fell out of the tree, as well as a beehive and several giant ants. The madman, the ants, and the bears bit me and tickled me until I wet my pants, while the bees stung me and their honey made me all sticky and gross. I felt something buzz once in my pocket, and then stop. A tinny voice on the other end came from my pants. “Hello? Hello?” It was the voice of my stern grandfather Caspius, a man difficult to impress and who clung to antiquated notions of masculinity. Unfortunately, I was not able to contain my giggles at being tickled in the armpit by one of the bears, and I was also not able to stifle my shouts: “Please stop! I’ll give you anything you want! I’m frail! I’ll tell you my grandfather Caspius’ ATM pin! I have a weak constitution!” Caspius, surely, caught it all.

I played dead after a while, using all of the restraint I had, silently willing my eyes to roll back and sticking the point of my tongue out of the side of my mouth. The crew of forest thugs departed, and I decided to check my email on my phone. There was only one email, my seventh grade report card was in: I got a C- in maths. Of course, I had no parents to beat me, but the mistress of the orphanage would surely strike me with a ruler dipped in vinegar, that is if she hadn’t perished in the fire. I crawled out of the woods and found my way to State Street. I felt very much like getting a glass of wine somewhere to dull my aches, and got a seat at a charming bistro. Unfortunately, I was sitting next to a very loud couple who were ruining this season of Breaking Bad for me, and then my waitress laughed at me when I asked for wine because, she pointed out, I looked like I was in sixth grade.

“I’m in seventh grade,” I said, and she laughed at me and brought me a glass of milk and then laughed some more. I drank the milk, forgetting the fact that I am intolerant to lactose and don’t like how slick it makes my throat, and then I got the bill, which was $24 before tip. I went to the restroom, which was crowded and smelled like diapers, and then left the bistro. As I was going out, I ran into Sally Withers again.

“Hey Benji,” she said. “You look like your bones got all broken and you’re covered with honey and bugs. Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve had a really trying day. All of my things were burned up in the orphanage fire; at least no one was hurt, because they’d all already perished due to the influenza. A snake stole my —” I paused. No need to tell her I slept with a stuffed animal. “— wallet, and then I was beaten by bears and I did poorly in maths.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Sally. “Oh, look. Your underwear is showing again. I think I’ll call you Benji Underpants.”

“No,” I begged, “please don’t do that,” but she did, several times in a row, loudly enough that passersby were amused and started chiming in, “Benji Underpants, Benji Underpants” and throwing balled-up napkins at me. State Street was unusually busy due to the opening of a new Sephora, so pretty soon there were thousands of people gathering and chanting at me as I tried in vain to hide the top of my underwear. Then it started raining, which was nice because it washed off most of the honey and dead ants in my hair, but was also terrible because I’m allergic to rainwater.

That night, I spent all of my savings on a room at the Key Point Motel, but I had a drippy faucet so I barely slept at all. However, they did offer a really nice buffet breakfast the following day. I had three plates of eggs benedict and did not wear any underwear. Although I was missing one big toe, Hives, intact bones and all of my friends and possessions, I would not submit. I would not give up. I felt restored. I left the restaurant and bought the paper at a quaint bodega, sat down on a stoop and unfolded it. The front page headline read EGGS BENEDICT RECALL.