It happened on a rainy day, a Tuesday in October. I was eight years old—eight, my unluckiest number, two zeroes, one stacked on top of the other. I was wearing my pink Mary Janes with pink polka-dotted socks and lacy underpants. Three days before I’d gotten a pixie haircut at Watson’s Beauty Salon on Jefferson Park Avenue. My mother, who suffered from hospital phobia, kept licking her finger, tamping the cowlicks down on my forehead while she spoke with the receptionist about my procedure. Then, suddenly, she was running away, her red raincoat swinging open like a cape. Your daughter will be fine! the receptionist called after her. A nurse helped me undress and handed me a sleeping pill and a crinkly paper cup. I was so hungry and thirsty, my mouth tasted like a dirty cottonball. I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, swinging my legs. Honey, you aren’t supposed to be awake, the nurse said before rolling me into the operating theater and placing a mask over my nose and mouth. Count backwards from ten to one. An acrid sweetness dripped in the back of my throat. I felt my body turn stiff and cold. Something’s wrong, I thought. I need a blanket. I tried to wave my arms and call for help, but I was a pinned butterfly beneath the fluorescent lights. She’s out, the doctor announced, lifting one eyelid and clamping it open as my mind slid away like a slipcover from a couch.