seemed puzzled to be participating in my surgery; I assumed that they had gone into Park Avenue-style plastic surgery to make bigger breasts and straighter noses, not to build a new kind of boy. It was not quite nine in the morning when I lay down, scared of the general anesthetic, but more scared that they would give me too little (vain to the end, I had subtracted fifteen pounds from my weight when the doctor was working his calculations). Andrea took one hand, and the anesthesiologist took the other, slipping a long fat needle into the big vein there. I wanted to say something, but then I was gone. I woke up in the middle of the afternoon, dopey and sore, but mostly dying for something to drink. Dr. Connor wandered into the recovery room to check on how I was coming out of the anesthetic. Apparently I had, while still out cold, demanded a sandwich and a Coke from anyone who would listen. I drifted in and out while they laughed, unable to move my arms and not very interested in trying.