‘Thanks,’ she said. She turned the shower on and stood outside its scope, just watching the heavy water hit the tiled floor. She couldn’t imagine standing under it, the pain of the water thumping on her tender breasts.

‘You doing OK, Grace?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. She washed her hands and then did her best to stretch out her arms. Everything hurt and strained and burned. She couldn’t bring herself to stand under the water and she couldn’t raise her arms; she was stranded and the nurse was waiting. No water touched her breasts or under her arms, her stomach, her vagina, her arms, hands or legs. She eventually leaned forward and wet her hair and face; she felt dizzy and was terrified she’d hit the deck. That was enough, maybe even too much. She cried all the way through. She tried not to look down, but her compression bandage was off and her patchwork breasts were hard to avoid. No nipples. She had never really loved her nipples, but now that they were gone, she missed them dearly. She nearly slipped on the way out; she automatically raised her hand and grabbed at the wall to stop her fall and the pain that went through her was truly spectacular. She screamed and the nurse was there to calm her down. She felt dizzy and nauseous; she needed to sit on the stool for a minute or two. ‘You’re OK, Grace, you’re doing great. Next stop, home.’ That’s all she wanted, to leave that place and go home.

When she was finally discharged, she felt a combination of intense relief, abject fear and that old familiar creeping guilt. She’s dead. I’m alive.

Fuck’s sake, Grace, cop on. Grace tried not to pity herself; dead Rabbit in her head wouldn’t allow it. At home, Grace’s kids tiptoed around her, all but Ryan who referred to her as Frankentits. ‘Do ya get it? Frankenstein, Frankentits. One of the lads in class came up with it.’

‘Yeah, son, I get it. It’s comforting to know you’re spreading the word.’

‘Didn’t know it was a secret,’ he said.

‘It’s not, Ryan, it’s just personal.’

‘Oh, OK.’