When I overhear my parents talkabout the death of Dorothy Stratten,the Playboy playmate first discoveredin a Vancouver Dairy Queen,I somehow confuse her with the womanwho sold my family our tent trailer.For show and tell that week, I announcethat the woman who sold my family our tent trailerwas murdered and the teacher just nods her headand moves on to the next child, a girlwho brings a doll she received for her birthday.At the time, I’ve only known of deathfrom young birds who fell from their nests,a few flushed goldfish, and my mother’s scissorsas she cut newspaper obituariesshe’d later place inside her Bible.That a famous person has died, a famous personwho sold my family our prized tent trailer,makes weekend getaways even more exotic:each time we camp that summer I lie awakelistening to the crickets through the tarp wallsthankful, yet still uncertain, whether my happinesssomehow led to Dorothy’s demise.