My own nose used to turn up like Mom’s, too, a trait passed down from way back in her family tree. Dad used to slide his finger down the bridge and off the tip. “My little Swiss ski jumps,” he’d say.

I touch my nose, which now ends in a round, bulbous cul-de-sac made of skin grafts. The fire was nothing if not thorough; it took all of Mom, even the pieces of her left in me.

Glenn steps into my room, his cowboy boots heavy on the carpet until Cora scolds him. He stops midstep to take off the pointy-toed boots that are as much a part of him as his skin, even though he hasn’t worked a ranch since he moved to Salt Lake. He neatly sets the pair against the wall and helps me take off my bandana after I get into bed.

“Nice to only have to wear this at night?” he asks, adjusting the strap of my mask around my head.

I nod.

Glenn stands back, watching me wiggle the mask into place, the familiar pressure against my skin. “I’m proud of you,” he says.

“For what?” I say through the small speech hole in the plastic.

“For being brave,” he says. “Know what John Wayne used to say?”

I shake my head. “I barely know who John Wayne is.”

Glenn laughs. “Well, then here’s your first lesson: ‘Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.’ ”

I twirl my hand in the air like I’m whipping a lasso.

Glenn kisses the top of my head. “Good night, kiddo.”

In the dim light, if I squint just right, I see my mom standing above me. I can almost believe she’ll be right down the hall, waiting for me to crawl into bed with her and tell her I’m terrified to face tomorrow alone.

Glenn and Cora walk out together, his broad shoulders hulking over her tiny frame. He stoops to pick up his cowboy boots with one hand while holding Cora’s slender fingers with the other. I watch them through my mask as they walk down the hallway.

I look down at my own hands, my claw on one side and my scarred fingers peeking out of my compression garments on the other.

Cora wants me to let people in. Problem is, no one’s knocking on my door—now or ever.

So whatever high school launches at me tomorrow, I have to be ready.

Bulletproof.

I put on my headphones, turn up the music, and close my eyes under the stitched-tight grip of the compression garments and the weight of my face mask. Normally, my burn-survivor getup makes me feel like a creepy King Tut entombed in a sarcophagus.

But tonight, it feels good.

Like a protective layer between me and the world.

Like it’s the only thing holding me together.

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