I swallowed my seven dwarves, they slid, with some coaxing, down my cavernous throat, marched in single file around the perimeter of my stomach lining, glistening in the dark. They dreamed of mirrors, of glass pooling at their feet, of diving in hard lines across its surface. I boarded a plane. I ordered seven drinks for my seven stowaways, they swam in the carbonation like seven Ester Williams. An expectant mother filled with fruit, I carried them to term, past canine nostrils, past security wands, past the automatic sliding doors, all the way to my glass coffin.