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Toronto, 1990. Diana was thirteen and sitting in a sturdy, wooden chair by a small, octagonal window in her top-floor bedroom of her family’s Toronto home, looking out. Her arm had healed enough that her doctor had removed the cast the day before. When he did, sawing through the plaster mold that had accompanied her throughout the summer, she was struck by the sight and smell of her arm: shriveled and pale, damp and weak, reeking of something close to decay. She stared at it, and the doctor had chuckled, not unkindly, suggesting that it would take some getting used to, but that with enough sunshine and play, it’d be good as new. She’d cradled it in her other arm as she got up to leave the hospital room with her mother, and the doctor had said, ‘Try not to do that, Diana.’ She looked at
