When we pull up to the new downtown theater, I crane my neck to see the orblike chandeliers blinking behind tall glass windows.

“First time?” Asad asks.

“Yeah. My parents used to take me to the old theater across town.”

Asad parks the car, hops out, and opens my door. I place my right hand in his, not even caring that my compression garments and overcooked fingers don’t fit into this normal teenage story line.

“New theater. New play. You are going to remember tonight.”

The rainbow reflections from the chandelier scatter across his face when we enter the lobby, and I know—without a doubt—he’s right.

Inside the theater, the ceiling stretches away from us, making the massive room even more grand. Men and women in suits and satin dresses speckle the seats, and it’s like I’m eight years old again, walking into my first Broadway theater with my mom to see Jersey Boys.

Asad and I settle into velvety seats behind a girl who can’t be more than ten, with her hair pinned up like she’s going to prom. Every few minutes, she turns around like she’s looking for someone, but it’s clear she’s sneaking peeks at me. Her mother leans down and whispers, and the girl whispers back, one eye on me.

“Go ahead, then,” the woman says. The girl turns around in her chair so she’s sitting on her knees, looking at me straight on.

“What happened to your face?” she says quietly.

“I was burned,” I say, trying to recall Dr. Layne’s steps. Say what happened. Say how I’m doing. Close the conversation.

“How?” she says.

“In a house fire,” I say. “But I’m doing much better now, even though I know it looks a little scary.”

Hey eyes wander around my face. “Does it hurt?”

“It did. A lot. But not as much anymore.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Joslyn!” her mother scolds.

“It’s okay,” I say. I reach out my hand to her, and she strokes her pointer finger along mine.

“It’s bumpy.”

“Weird, huh?”

“But it feels like skin.”

“Did you expect reptile scales?”

She laughs and shakes her head.

“Show her the other one,” Asad says. “Wait until you see this!”

I pull up my left hand and the girl gasps a little at the misshapen fingers and enormous thumb.

“That looks really weird,” she says.

“Yeah, but who else do you know that can scratch their head with their toe!” Asad says.

The girl laughs again when I scratch my scalp.

“And pick your nose with your toe!” she says.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that one,” I say. “But thank you for asking me about my scars. That was brave of you.”