DF touches her palms to my cheeks, standing on tip-toe to inspect my face. "Open your mouth," she says.
I close my eyes and open my jaw wide. I feel something scrape against my back molars - plastic maybe, or a piece of candy.
"I took the teeth from your bag," DF says. "You really shouldn't carry loose bones around."
She means: the wisdom teeth I carry with me, the ones that took hours to extract, with fused roots and thick pulp.
"I tried to bury them once," I say. "But I dug them right back out."