But the deeper the tool went the harder it was to understand the doctor, to understand what was happening to her. When it was finally over, Rosie wasn’t Rosie anymore. She would never be able to do anything again: talk, walk, swim, dance, flirt with boys, smoke cigarettes, meet future queens, accompany her father to dinner. Go to the movies. Take a shower, comb her hair, feed herself, use the toilet. She would never again go home or be one of the Kennedys. Her brain’s circuitry, like a string of Christmas lights crushed one by one, had gone dark. Rosie was left, functionally, as a
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