Bobbie calls herself a baby, she calls everyone a baby, she wants to say goodnight to dad. She asks for shoes and cheese, she says go NOW and SHOES NOW, GO. Every day, a new word, sometimes strung together in young sentences. Joe tells me he doesn’t want to play with me, then tells me he’s a baby rabbit. He asks to see my penis, he says he remembers when I was in Dad’s tummy, he asks me if I want to sit on a chair made of fire. Bobbie asks for apple. Their words surround me and make me unable to find my own, literally speechless that I grew their mouths and brains, that they exist without and outside of me, that they are so weird and wonderful and forming but formed, that there are words for any of it.