“These are your eyes we’re talking about,” he says. “Can’t grow a new pair of those.”

He hands me a small mirror.

A twinge of memory grips me, remembering the first time I saw my face, thinking it would be like that time Sara double-bounced me off the trampoline and the doctors gave me a row of stitches on my chin. A little scar. But still me.

This time, I’m not so naive. I expect the girl in the glass.

My scars are still there. My mouth still seeps beyond its bounds, and the skin grafts still chop my cheeks into light and dark meat.

But instead of the droopy, half-brain-dead sag of my eyelids, my eyes look like normal eyes.

My eyes.

I find myself in the blue and let the rest of my face wash away.

The girl in the mirror sees me for the first time, too.

Hello in there.

I’ve been looking for you.

May 7

Four months

after the fire,

I walked out

on my own two feet.

I said goodbye

to nurses morphine beeping screaming infection transfusions terry tweezers surgery gauze catheters balloons visitors linda torture bedsores bedpans cafeterias jell-o crying code-blue gowns vaseline mood-music stitches post-op IVs sepsis bacitracin amputations debridement hydrotherapy g-tubes rounds lab-coats pain

sayonara

auf Wiedersehen

adios

I was going

home.

38

Cora drops me off at school a few days later, after most of the swelling subsides. By the curb, like always, Piper waits. But this time, she’s standing, not exactly on her own, but with the help of a walker-style contraption in front of her. A long plastic-looking brace runs down both legs and into her shoes.

Her chopped hair blows wildly in the wind. In the distance, a cloud thick with snow compresses against the mountains.

“Been working on my standing ovation,” she says as I run to hug her, which I accomplish awkwardly over her walker.

“This is incredible,” I say. “No more wheelchair?”

“I’ve got old wheelie in the office on standby, but it’s a start.” She leans heavily on the walker like she’s already tired. “Plus, I couldn’t let you take all the recovery glory.”

She motions for me to come closer.

“Speaking of, let’s see this new and improved you.” She taps her chin with her fingertips, deliberating, as I lean forward. “Good job, Dr. Cold Fingers.”

“Really? Do you think people will notice?”

“And by people do you mean Asad?” she says, cocking her eyebrow.

“I mean people.”

“I think ‘people’ ”—Piper holds up her finger in air quotes—“don’t matter. I thought this surgery was for you.”

“It is.” I hold the door open for Piper. “And I like it.”

“Then I pronounce it a success!”