A bloody-pulp socket in my mouth was worth something. Fifty cents, at least. So I sat at the kitchen table to twist and tug and twist—use a tissue for better purchase while the salt-iron taste proved my progress. Nobody wanted to watch but I wasn’t sure what the big deal was. It wasn’t like having to look at Nancy’s blood- streaked sputum or the slack space beneath Minnie’s blouse or even Uncle Frank’s humped-up hand and gnarled fingers. It was just good business and I aimed to profit from my loss.