“You were”—I begin the question without knowing how I will end it—“given the name of a girl at your birth?” He laughs. “A fine and kind way of asking. I am well impressed.” I am learning his laugh, the low music of it. “Yes,” he says. “Given a girl’s name, and it fit me no better than a wrongly cut blouse. But renamed by my good stepmother upon realizing the mistake. And since that day, I have been Narciso.” “Narciso,” I say, letting my amusement show. “The name of the hunter who died for love of looking at himself in a pond?” This boy holds little in common with that hunter. Yes, he is
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