Besides your birth name, you were given another name from a secret baptism, meant to confuse spirits waiting to snatch you up at play or lead you to the well. You remember a bath towel, edge embroidered with daisy chains, threaded with its syllables. It meant Girl with Chipped Teeth, Girl with Scabbed Knees, Girl with pock-marked face. The towel dried in the open, a flag rigged to mean look away, she isn't who you want. Nobody said double or shadow. Outside in the world: you stepped out of that jerry-built altar, careful to rinse the musk-smell of magnolias from your nape. You learned to answer but quietly. How long did it take before the two of you drew closer to one another, breathed in unison under blankets, clasped hands under a billow of netting.