"My leg hairs have officially stopped growing," chirps Molly at the breakfast table. Amonymous crunches and slurps, aloof.
"Das is good?" I ask.
"Well, it saves time in the morning, at least."
There is, inside her, our second child, growing, sapping her resources and proteins. All that wouldbe leg hair redirected, outsourced to the womb for its nutrients and cellular mass. "Perhaps we should call the kid Harry."