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'Real' doesn't always imply 'solid' and anyway every time she stubs her toes or pinches herself or - just that one time - slides a blade through her skin, it's clear she's solid enough: cavity-free teeth and bones she only remembers having broken. And yet when she palms lipsticks from trays and bracelets from hangers, her confidence isn't all shoplifters' high; underneath sits the certainty that she is a little less than visible. Shadow to shadow she slips among the crowding unworrying people, every one of whom walks more heavily than she, all weighted with some essential concreteness she lacks.