She'd been afraid of getting dull. Like that new baby would roly-poly over her body till all the edges were hulls. Smooth out her brain too. Just work her into a nothing no-face, the way her momma taught her to knead dough. It should be smooth and tacky to the touch. Tacky. She had something to say about that. A story to tell. A hot car, a pulling over. A boy rolling a cool beer can over her edges. Was that her, or someone she'd heard about? The joke was the boy. Rolling that can. Must have been something he read. Such an innocent mistake, and she, whoever she was, let him. Let that innocence roll right on over her. Tacky. Ah, that's who she was. Is. A stickiness, but not a holding.