“Today, let’s briefly discuss the power of words,” she says. “Words have power because we give them meaning. Hate. Love. Hope. Anger.” She turns to us. “Let’s start with some of the words that describe you. Which ones stick out?”

Crickets chirp as she scans the circle. Even scar-free Chatty McChatterson is quiet.

Dr. Layne seems pleasantly surprised when I raise my hand.

“A girl called me Freddy Krueger today,” I say.

Piper chuckles next to me. “Oooh…good burn.”

Dr. Layne narrows her eyes at Piper but directs her words to me.

“Names are indeed a type of word, but today let’s discuss the words we use to describe ourselves.”

She turns to the whiteboard behind her and writes the word VICTIM.

“How does this word make you feel?”

“Hurt,” the girl with no scars says.

The boy adds: “Hopeless.”

Dr. Layne writes again: SURVIVOR.

“How about this one?”

The boy volunteers: “Hopeful.”

“This week, pay attention to how you talk about yourself. Use words that give you power rather than strip it away.”

She writes some other examples on the board for us to ponder—ugly, disabled, burned, beautiful, weak, strong, healing—then gives us each a marbled composition notebook.

“Write about anything you don’t feel like sharing out loud. The most important thing is you are in control. You can’t change what happened to you, but you can take control of your story. Your lives have changed. My goal is to help you find a new normal.”

Dr. Layne releases us to the refreshment table after more details about support-group etiquette. How this is a safe place. Why talking about our trauma is so important. The usual mumbo jumbo.

Piper scoots her wheelchair up to me at the refreshment table.

“First group?”

I shake my head. “Nah, wrong room. Thought this was the modeling callbacks.”

Piper’s laugh fills the empty space.

“Uh-oh. Don’t let Laynie hear you cracking jokes.” She slaps on a somber face. “This is serious business. This is burn-survivor therapy, or as I like to call it, BS therapy.”

Piper fills a plate in her lap with cookies.

“So I take it you’ve done this before?” I ask.

“Yep, bona fide support groupie. My parents are happy as long as they think I’m ‘making progress.’ ” She puts air quotes around the last two words.

She reaches for a cup but can’t grab it from her chair. I hand it to her, and when my fingers touch hers, she doesn’t flinch.

“Thanks. So, fellow Crossroader, huh?” she says. It hits me that this is the girl Glenn mentioned, the one Cora thinks will be my insta-BFF.

“Sort of. First day today.”

“Oh man, with that mug, I can only imagine. How rough was it?”

I think of the looks, the whispers, the boy throwing a pencil at me like he’d seen a ghost.

“Brutal.”