I don’t add that I highly doubt anyone’s going to be looking at my accessories. Cora’s eyes flick from the bagstravaganza to me, her eyebrows pushed together with the same look she gets doing the Sunday crossword. Like if she can just focus hard enough, she can find the solution.

But for all Cora’s efforts, I’m one puzzle she can’t fix.

“I think this one,” she says decisively, holding out a black messenger bag to me. “But try it just to make sure before I return the rest.”

Rather than modeling it, I tell her whatever she wants is fine and remind her that in two weeks, when I return to my glorious hermithood, I won’t need it.

Cora’s mouth turns downward, and for a second, her CEO-of-Ava’s-recovery mask slips and I see someone else, someone small and scared who wishes more than anything her own daughter were here, modeling backpacks and getting excited for new friends and rowdy sleepovers and all the other normal sixteen-year-old-girl things Cora wanted for Sara.

I sigh and take the messenger bag from her, slinging it over my head.

“It’s perfect, Cora, thanks.”

She adjusts the bag so it falls neatly by my side. The weight of it tugs on my already taut shoulders, but it’s good to see her smile.

Cora plucks a navy blue bandana from my collection and holds it up next to the blousy blue shirt she bought me. “Now, this is an outfit.” She doesn’t have money to throw at new clothes right now, but I’m grateful not to wear Sara’s hand-me-downs tomorrow. Luckily, it’s February, so I can wear long sleeves and jeans to cover most of my compression garments.

“You’re sure about no wig?” she says. “That nice lady from the hospital said we could call anytime. We could hop in the car right now and go get one.”

I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

A wig might cover my patchy scalp better than a bandana, but it’s not going to fool anyone. The lady who came armed to the burn unit with wigs and makeup and all sorts of other hide-your-scars paraphernalia was nice, but for all her efforts, fake hair and foundation couldn’t cover this. So why pretend?

After Cora leaves, I unzip my compression garments, carefully shedding the second skin that keeps my scars from puffing out like cotton candy.

I lie facedown on the bed in a tank top and shorts, the yarn from Sara’s quilt tickling my nose. Cora returns and starts our nightly slather-me-in-lotion routine. We begin on my right side. She gently straightens my arm, which from this angle looks freakishly thin. Like skin-and-bones, back-from-the-dead zombie thin. Who knew fat cells could burn up?