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It was my made-up name that gave the clue to who and what I am. Nana Wolffmüller is not on record in the place where I was born—on Sunday morning, just past three, among machines that beeped and wheezed, the twenty-ninth of February, twenty-four years ago. Many births there were that leap-year day—worldwide a multitude—some more notable than others, mine proclaimed "exceptional" in as much as it inspired an enigmatic newspaper article:

"12 YEAR OLD VIRGIN—IN A COMA—GIVES BIRTH"

the caption read, arousing curiosity both prurient and indignant, this "aberration" complicated further by the fact that child and host shared not a single chromosome (tests confirmed), the baby's features Asiatic, the mother's and her entire family's Caucasian, said mother admitted to hospital before she "immaculately" conceived... hence questions begging answers arose from every quarter.

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