One sunny afternoon when I was eight, my step-dad kicked my head off. I was as surprised as anyone. I’d been a weighted, human girl-child my whole life with two arms and two legs, one that knew how to tee a football for kick-off. Then I was light, excused from gravity, the wind in my hair. I launched away from the ball, now on its side by my body, toward that blinding spot in the sky only to hang for a moment or a week—I couldn’t know—before descent, before the thwack when I hit the grass and rolled to a stop by a garter snake who peed when it saw me and wiggled off. Of course my brothers hadn’t caught me. They’d gone long as they’d been told to, and a head is heavier than a ball. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t do math or set a table or remember to toss his liquor down the bank on days when mom was gone or lie well even when their lives depended on it. Before I realized and they realized and the screaming and the sirens and the EMT who puked into the mint at the edge of our yard, I’d had the brief feeling of infinity. That’s what I tell people when they ask about the scar around my neck, when they joke that I’d make a perfect Frankenstein for Halloween (Frankenstein’s monster, I correct them because they’re assholes), when I tell them, the ones who are listening, that sometimes when you’re a weighted, human girl-child with a step-dad and two useless brothers, there are worse things than being just a head, untethered.