A bishop—tall, thin, with bright red lips—lifted me onto his shoulders, squeezing as he did so my tiny ass. Wobbly, I grabbed for his mitre, but found instead the face of a small child, small but with a mouth big enough to swallow me.

Inside the child's mouth was a street in which I stood alone while women lined the sidewalks laughing and pointing at me. Why were they laughing? I wanted to crawl under my dress and disappear into my cotton lining, but just then my left hand fell off.

Hello, I said aloud, more amazed than terrified. What are you doing down there in the dust?

Then my right hand unhinged itself.

Hello.

Then my nose, my lips, my kneecaps.

My goodness, I said as I continued to fall apart . . .