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long hair from a hairbrush. It seemed to cause the spider no pain at all, but when it tried to move, its coinlike body fell over to one side; it could not walk when it was so lopsided. Finally, at Andy's insistence—"Kill it, just kill it!"—I crushed it with the palm of my hand, pressing the flat body into the driveway and leaving a gooey smudge on the concrete.
    Andy and I also had a rotating collection of salamanders that we pulled out of "Stink Lake" in LaBonte Park. In the springtime we took them from the water, and during the summer we found them under logs and piles of damp leaves. After we had removed them from their natural habitats, we waited for them to die in the old fish tank we used as their temporary home, denying them food and water. Their moist skin began to dry up and they began to look shorter and shorter, even with their long tails. It didn't take long: A salamander averaged several days; the sturdiest one lasted a week. We called them "Chip" and "Bob," short names to match their short lives. We often had one or two captives in various states of near demise. When they were about to croak, they went from green to brown to a sickly gray color that matched the rocks where we'd found them or lifted them from the dirty water.
    I found a shameful but exhilarating joy in this cruelty to helpless creatures. I experienced a guilty, unsettling power when I took control of these small lives. I knew I was going to have "the big operation"—as my parents called it—and I was going to have it soon. I knew that my left foot would be taken away. Instead of walking with a brace, I would use a fake leg made of wood. I would be able to run and skip and even ride a bike. I didn't mind the brace so much, and although I didn't like needles or the smells of hospitals, and I hated being immobile in a hospital bed, I did enjoy the attention I received from Mom and Dad, from people in my church, from neighbors, nurses, and classmates. The one good thing about going under the knife was getting to be the center of attention, getting to be the star.
    As Andy and I conducted our experiments, I watched how the small creatures I tortured dealt with deformity when it was thrust upon them. What I learned was that they didn't survive very long, yet there was something powerful about their struggle that was horrible but fascinating to watch. Andy always wanted to end the suffering by squashing the bug before it died. "Stop!" he pleaded.
    "No," I often replied to his requests for mercy. "Wait."
    Part of me wanted to see how long these creatures could last. I wanted to be a witness to their resourcefulness, as if their limits were in some way a gauge of my own. Part of me expected a miracle, as if the daddy longleg spiders could grow back their thin, eyelashlike legs or the salamanders would swim away when we dumped their lifeless bodies into the polluted lake. The expectation of the miracle always seemed much more important than whether or not it actually occurred. "God be with you," we said to one another at church. "The Lord be with you. Peace be with you." Certainly if there was going to be a miracle, God—who was with me always, every moment of every day—would make sure that it happened to me. The smaller, more helpless creatures of the world were on their own.

Chapter Two
     
    THE BRICK HOUSE
     
    In April 1978, still wearing the metal brace, I met Dr. Elliot at Denver Children's Hospital. He had successfully treated several other patients with PFFD and would be the doctor to perform "the big operation," as it had come to be known. I liked him; he called me "peanut" or "Miss Emily" and always had a different stuffed animal with him that he let me hold and chatter to. He had a pleasant smile. He grew up in Tennessee and had a soft southern accent.
    Dr. Elliot recommended a repeat osteotomy (the earlier one had not held), together with amputation of the left foot and the insertion of a permanent plate in the left hip area. I liked