Will to survive I think that Gigi is a snake child. The signs are all there; taut skin; beaded eyes; decreasing body mass as the base person who was swallowed to make a frame is digested. Gigi enters the room with shuffling feet, like two awkward tails slithering with the mien of a zombie. She takes her desk, basking in morning sunlight as it heats the goosebumps that scale her: this is when she seems happiest. At lunch she doesn’t eat like the other kids. She watches classmates inhaling their pizza slices and chocolate milk, her tongue occasionally licking past her lips. Gigi draws the flicked probe back lightning fast, embarrassed someone might notice. On the playground she looks for dark nooks to seclude in, like the underside of the old slide that isn’t played on anymore. If people come too near, she wriggles away, often unseen. But I see her. One day, an exceptional day, when I am feeling outgoing, I may sneak next to her and see if we can both warm our scales in the sun. I am not territorial
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