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The only extravagance she allows herself after her mother died is a bath tub carved from a single piece of white marble. For some reason, suspending herself in the stone of the Taj Mahal comforts her head as her heart numbs.

Every night she feels like a carved and not yet dusted fossil partially uprooted and exposed.

Tonight on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, she stares at her knee and wonders about the real power, if any, of joints or connections.

Suddenly, her mind’s eye summons her first friend a stuffed dinosaur, she received when she was a toddler.

She randomly wonders if dragons are related to dinosaurs.

“Silly, there is no such thing as dragons,” a gentle yet stern voice inside her head chides.

She smiles ruefully and submerges.

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