Cora works the lotion into all my cracks and crevices as the familiar medical/old-lady smell of the oily cream fills the room. My beige compression garments slump like snakeskin on my desk. After a year, they seem more me than the purply-pink swirling scars of my actual body.

I used to think of skin as one continuous unit, but mine is more like Sara’s bedspread beneath me—a morbid quilt stitched together. Some pieces are original, some are scarred over, and some are grafted in from other parts of my body after the doctors played epidermal musical chairs. During the early days, I even had some pig and cadaver skin stapled in while we waited for a lab somewhere to grow more of me from postage-stamp-size cutouts from my back.

Cora works my arm like it’s bread dough, her fingers pushing in and spreading the lotion. It’s the one time Cora doesn’t act like I’m an eggshell about to crack, probably because the nurses in the hospital told her the rougher she massages, the better for my scarring. And if it’s “aiding recovery,” Cora is all about it.

I lift my left leg before she even gets to it. After eight months of this full-body rubdown routine, we’re like a synchronized-swimming duo. I’m flexible enough now that I could do my own lotion lathering, but honestly, it’s nice to be touched by something other than Dr. Sharp’s icy fingers. Besides, the massaging relieves the itching, which is a side effect of the dryness, which is a side effect of having no oil glands. That domino effect culminates in a constant buzzing itch beneath my skin I can never quite reach.

“So I read an interesting article,” Cora says.

I almost laugh out loud at this utterly not shocking fact. Burn Survivor Quarterly comes to our house every few months to fill Cora’s head with ideas on how she can help me. She reads every word of every issue, often leaving cutout articles on my bed.

“It said how important it is for burn survivors to have a support group of peers who understand them.” Cora talks as she rubs. “And I just know tomorrow you will meet some new friends, and I think it’s really going to help you, Ava. I can feel it.”

I roll on my back so she can rub my knees.

“It’s two weeks. Don’t get your hopes up,” I say, although it’s clear her hopes have already rocketed out of the earth’s atmosphere.

“Well, you’re always saying how you don’t need friends—”

“Which I don’t.”

“And I’m saying, stay open to the possibility. Don’t let your fears stop you.”

“I’m not afraid.” I flex my puny arm muscles. “I’ve got my scar armor to protect me.”