During both pregnancies, she’d craved Duane Reades the way other women craved watermelon, their fluorescent lights and predictable shelves. She’d walk through the aisles and rub her lower back, sometimes crying a little, always soothed by the bright hair dyes, the seasonal ornaments, the medications, all those promises. She was afraid of having children, like most women, afraid of all the ways the world could wreck them. But those stores reminded her that there were myriad tools for repair. There were ointments for insect bites and minor burns and headaches; syrups for coughs; lipstick and
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