A man raped, murdered you, then careened you down an overpass. Another man claimed he did it, gave you a name. Joanie-Judy-something (there are so many girls in this world). The paper printed “orange socks,” the only man-made thing on your naked body. Except the scar under your chin, the blood on your legs, whoever got your mother pregnant. Except when a man reached inside and crashed you. And there but for the grace of god go all the girls in the world. He might as well have kept the man and thrown the rib away.

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