Free The Little Giant of Aberdeen County by Tiffany Baker Page A

rubber tomahawk, as if we were playing Indian chief—a game the taciturn Amelia and I sometimes played in the woods at the Dyerson farm. Amelia was always the princess, subdued and in mortal peril, and I was the Indian brave—barreling through shrubbery and trees, arriving in a huff of wobbling arms and legs. The husk of Amelia was so light, I could carry her with one arm, and I greatly enjoyed this. It made me feel competent and gave me the illusion of capability. Don’t worry, I’d pant, dragging Amelia toward the barn, I’ll keep the both of us safe forever and ever . Amelia would close her eyes and giggle, but when I looked at her face, she always still managed to look worried, as if all her life experience as a Dyerson had taught her better than to hope for even an ounce of salvation.
    Dr. Robert Morgan wound a tape measure around my forehead, my chest, and my thighs. More numbers flew from his pencil into the clipboard. He shone a penlight and watched my pupils contract and expand—twin universes being born and dying right in the center of me. He peered into my nostrils and ears. He thumped, and prodded, and poked. He had me cover one eye and read nonsense letters off a chart. When I switched hands, the letters scattered and wheeled like magpies in a field.
    “Do you ever feel dizzy or faint?” Dr. Morgan ran his thumbs down the sides of my neck. I shook my head. “Short of breath? Tired? Extremely thirsty?” I shook my head again. No, no, and no, although it wasn’t true. My heart did sometimes heave and thump in my chest as if it had a mind of its own, but I didn’t know how to explain that to the doctor. Also, I wanted him to write that everything was fine with me for Miss Sparrow. A wild animal heart and regular dizzy spells weren’t going to get me the correct diagnosis.
    Dr. Morgan slammed down the cover of the clipboard. “Okay, Truly.” He patted my knee and gazed at me over the black rims of his glasses. “We’re all done here.” They were scientist’s spectacles —square and thick and utterly reasonable. If I put them on, I wondered, would I see everything in angles and perfect straight lines? Would the world fall in order? Dr. Morgan handed me my limp pile of clothes. “You can get dressed. I’ll just wait outside, and then I want to talk to your father.”
    I took my clothes. They were my weekend boy clothes: dungarees, a plaid shirt, wool hunting socks. They hung in my hand like a shed skin. I looked up at Dr. Morgan and took a deep breath. “Am I a giant?”
    Dr. Morgan turned back to me, his hand on the doorknob. “A giant? Why, wherever did you hear that?”
    “Miss Sparrow. She said there must be something wrong with me. She said I’m too big to believe.”
    Dr. Morgan crossed back over to me. He took off his glasses and wiped them carefully, swirling the corner of his white coat around and around each pane of glass, clearing it, making it shine. “Is that why she sent you here?” he finally asked. My bottom lip quivered. I nodded. Dr. Morgan patted my shoulder with the absentminded rhythm of a mother soothing a child.
    “You shouldn’t listen to people like Miss Sparrow, or Mrs. Pickerton, either. They don’t have medical degrees. They have no idea what they’re saying.” He tipped my chin up and wiped my tears away with the pad of his thumb. His fingers were surprisingly warm. “Have you ever heard of the pituitary gland?” I shook my head. He moved his fingers to the base of my skull and tapped, marking the spot as if he were going on a treasure hunt.
    “It’s like a little clock in your brain. It sends out messages to your body about when to grow and how fast. Some people have a slow clock, so they don’t grow very much. Those are the little people in the world. And some people, like you, are in a hurry to get as big as you can as fast as you can. It’s like your body is in a race against everyone else’s, and it’s determined to win. The regular people in the