Terra can read my flapping better than my face. “You’ve got one for everything,” she says, and I wish everyone could look at my hands and see I need you to slow down or this is the best thing ever or can I please touch or I am so hungry I think my brain is trying to eat itself. But if they see my hands, I’m not safe. “They watch your hands,” my sister says, “and you might as well be flipping them off when all you’re saying is this menu feels nice.”
