Slicing honeydew for breakfast a week later, I got a call from Daniel Jones. The sky was overcast, but our apartment was strangely hot, and I sensed this wild-luck break was ending, bad news coming. On the phone, Mr. Jones asked me if Aspen Matis was my real name. I had to tell him no. I had been born Deborah Parker, and legally, I still was. “As the New York Times is nonfiction,” he told me, “we need to use your legal name.” Distracted, I grasped the handle of a pan in the oven with my bare hand, burning my palm. Holding the pain under cold water, I told him I understood. The throbbing sharp,
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Seems conflicting
