A single, distinctive envelope lay nestled among the stack of junk mail when I got home last night. And, no, it wasn't a subpoena – I'm pretty sure those have to be hand-delivered.

So I took a second to open it despite Harley's increasingly urgent pleas for Scooby Snacks. Apparently they starve them at day care.

At any rate, turns out it was from one of those fledgling DNA-testing companies. You know, for a few hundred bucks and a mouthful of spit they can tell me where I came from, what's wrong with me and how (or maybe just when) I'm gonna die.

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