Clifford and I got to talking about childhood toys, and he mentioned a plush giraffe, which he’d named Roll-o. “Ah, Jamie, I loved my Roll-o,” he said. “He was so squeezable and everything. If I didn’t have him in bed with me it was hard to fall asleep.”

“So Roll-o was a he?” I questioned.

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” Clifford said. “I don’t think I thought in terms of he or she. Roll-o was just Roll-o. My special pal. Thinking back, though, no question Roll-o did not have a penis. But he didn’t have a pussy either.”

Clifford’s face took on a strange expression.

“What?” I asked.

“Rollo-o did have a kind of button sort of thing. At his back end. I guess it was the place where he was stuffed. For some reason, maybe the texture of it, I kind of liked to feel it. I guess I felt it too much, because one day it came apart and some of the stuffing leaked out. I was sad and angry. Mad at myself for breaking Roll-o. Mad at Roll-o too, for breaking.”