My nurse asked to take my picture before I left the unit. Said she was going to label it FIGHTER. I said no. I didn’t belong on the wall of inspiration. The people in these pictures have earned their titles, earned their triumphant “after” photoshoot. A man with one leg crosses a finish line under the word ENDURANCE.

I look past him at my own reflection in the glass, holding the skin taut around my eyes.

It’s a small change, maybe not even noticeable to anyone else. But it’s a step.

Toward the old me.

To finally earning my after.

22

Neither Cora nor I mention the surgery all the way home.

A new message beeps on my phone. The drama demigod with my audition time, Friday at three-fifteen.

I don’t write back. Not yet. Two hours ago I would have said absolutely no way. But then Dr. Sharp lifted my eyes and offered me a glimpse of the girl I used to know. A girl who wouldn’t let anything keep her off that stage.

But first, I need Cora and Glenn to agree to the surgery. I at least need to wait for Glenn to try my luck. Sara could give him a hug and an “I love you, Daddy,” and he would give her a kidney without batting an eye.

Unfortunately, Cora ushers Glenn into their bedroom and shuts the door before I even have a chance. When they emerge, the conversation is already off to a bad start.

“Hey, kiddo, want to help me touch up some paint in your bedroom?” Glenn asks.

I recognize a consolation prize when I see it.

So even though it’s late and I have a math test I haven’t studied for, I agree, hoping I haven’t missed my chance to make my case. While we paint, I conjure every therapy buzzword I know, laying out my plan on how the surgery could help with my reintegration and my self-perception, and I remind him how he and Cora were the ones who said I should try to make a new life for myself.

When I’m done, I notice Cora standing silently in the doorway.

“You’ve been through so much this year. Your body needs time to heal. Now is not the time for elective surgeries,” Glenn says, dabbing his brush into the seam where wall meets ceiling.

“Yes, now,” I say. “I need the surgery now.”

“Why?” Cora asks. She supervises our painting but can’t seem to bring herself to pink over Sara’s blue. “There’s no rush, and you’re already doing so well at school.”

I pick at a fleck of pink paint that’s hardened on Mom’s charred handbell.

“There’s a spot in the spring musical. But I can’t do it like this.”

Glenn stops painting midstroke.

“Who says you can’t?”

“I say.”