I was a sneaky child. Sneaky and hungry and — occasionally — vengeful. When I was 8, we moved from Cleveland to London, and my little sister was born. Poor thing — her perfect skin was marked by my secret vampiric experiments: What happens when you suck really hard on a juicy little arm? One afternoon, my mother, understandably, as I see it now, flustered by adapting to a foreign city with two sullen Midwestern grade-schoolers and a newborn, sent me to the bakery on the high street to buy a loaf of bread. It was 1984, when people still did that kind of thing. She was too trusting.