Sometimes, a thumb is just a thumb. For this author, a thumb is a fork, a comb, a bug squasher, a belt buckle, a pool cue, and somebody to cuddle at night. Writing from the back of a VW Beetle partially submerged in the Rio Grande, the author would rather be known for his groundbreaking work in sleep paralysis than anything else. This, his sixth novel in which he avoids writing about the subject, is intended to be a bromidic sorbet in order to set the table.