Years ago, a tiny lizard was caught in the hinge of the bathroom window. Someone must have shut it quick and either never noticed or left it there on purpose. Its body paled to an almost parchment color. You could see the spine, like it was turned into an x-ray of itself. If it had gotten away instead of perished, its body would have spontaneously generated a copy of the amputated part— its cells proliferating into cartilage instead of growing more bone in place of broken bone. As a child I'd loved stories of their free-fall from the ceiling, admired that superpower which could put a fractured thing back into some semblance of the whole. But also, I remember the warnings not to wish so hard for anything in case it becomes too true— Every escape a kind of thievery from the gods, for which you might have to pay, with no end in sight.