But no. It’s not a rag at all. Once I unravel it, I see it’s a little shirt, for a child. It’s light blue with white polka dots. One of the sleeves is ripped. I turn it over. There’s a tiny paint stain in the middle of the spine. I drop it. I know this shirt. The polka dots, the paint stain. I recognize it. I had the same one. This was my shirt. It couldn’t be my shirt. But it is. When I was a kid. I’m sure of it. How did it end up in here?
