Quickly I grabbed my Gaga Bobo, stuffed a corner under my nose, shoved my thumb back into my mouth. My bedroom was square and yellow and brand-new this one was an attic with a gray-blue wall curling into its ceiling. A scary tree shook its fists at the moon, and I drew back. I found instead a pearl-blue station wagon with pointed tailfins. I grabbed the bars to pull myself up and thought, “Where am I?” I held my breath and searched for clues. It begins with me being nudged awake by a waxy moon spilling silver-white light through the window as I sucked my thumb. Those first confusing moments unravel in my mind like an old film. Flooded by questions without words to articulate them, I connected images with explanations. I was almost four when it first occurred to me that no one else was missing legs.
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