Alma, miraculously, angles her body to give Julia free rein over the cluster of bobby pins on the desk. She dips her head back like she used to do in the bathtub, a tiny girl amid an ocean of tugboats and rubber octopi. Julia runs her fingers through her daughter’s hair, Alma’s skull now so sturdy and concrete. She twists a lock away from Alma’s face and pins it back near the crown of her head and then—taking a chance—she bows her face to kiss
