Non-Fiction on me. Pants rolled up to my knees to tan my scarred legs. Bees circle my knee. A bunny tinier than you can imagine hops as fast as it can. Close behind, a cat follows—slow, practically dragging its paws. I scold him. Kitty, no! Kitty is startled. For the first time in history I’ve noticed a cat before it has noticed me. Inside, I circle the vitrines in the main hall, whispering to myself, former frozen water exporter but likely best known for the popular antique market—down the street—taking its name from the founder’s dog, Finnegan. The volume on the television is turned down to one. Still, it is too loud. Then I hear voices other than my own. Outside, people tend the garden. Why did Marilyn warn me about Helen? It seems there is a club dedicated to the task. I peer out the window from the second floor. Cheek to the glass. Day 78—I wonder what it is like to have a conversation. I could go outside to say hello. That seems too difficult now. I’ve made friends with the wooden ducks in the display. The clinic is down the street. I get my blood tested when I start thinking the music from the DVD is making me sick. Maybe I was sick before. I wasn’t alone long enough to notice. They prick my veins. The nurse says I’m sorry, you have small veins, it doesn’t usually take this long. I start wondering what kind of summer is this? Walking back to the museum, I run into Mackenzie from high school. What are you doing in Hudson? I tell her. I didn’t know we had a museum. No one does. Why are you holding your arms out
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