It creeps up on you. One morning you look down on the floor next to your bed and notice that someone shed a matronly undergarment there and that someone was you. You had ordered it without realizing that shade of beige, that elastic texture, that shapewear would look anything other than sexy as it had on that buxom young model online. On you, it looks like it has been hanging on a clothesline traumatized in a twister. Once crisp, tinged sepia now, back from Oz, apart from your Scarecrow love, heels clicking, you find you can never return. You are no longer Dorothy. You are firmly Auntie Em. The farmhands no longer notice you. They're all fawning over your daughter in your childhood bed. She's asleep. She's running a fever, but she hasn't coughed yet. "Her collar looks tight," one observes. "Should we loosen it at the neck?" You tell him to skedaddle. To keep his distance. You wet a washcloth. Help her body cool. You fashion a mask out of the old undergarment based on a YouTube tutorial. You're all out of wishes. If someone claimed your house had dropped from the sky, you would believe it.