185. One day the postcards stopped. The military had discharged her for bad conduct. She just disappeared. At the playground behind my house I crawled into strange women‘s laps, snuck into their brood of children, slipped my hand, unnoticed, into theirs. I can remember how the startled mothers‘ expressions rearranged when they discovered it was my hand they held—a look of pity mixed, consistently, with repulsion. No one wants a changeling.