The whole world conspired to make her fat. That’s what it had to be. When she thought of her gigantic ass atop legs that had no calves, her ass below a flat torso, it disgusted her. God and the ancestors had pranked her, sending all the curves to the wrong damned place.

We all hoped Kilpatrick would be canceled, that he’d soon be out of our lives. Lord knew, we were banking on it, especially those of us who’d done business with him. But just as our celebration was beginning, there he was, showing his face, like we knew he would.

The clinic Alma sends you to is really just the back room of a Seven Eleven across the street from the Thai restaurant where Raj was supposed to propose. There’s an examination table covered in last week’s Washington Post and an ultrasound machine with a cracked screen.