My ankle is swollen, scratched, but the scratches are faint. Unapparent.

I don’t know how I could invent pain like that, how I could conjure that type of suffering, those specific, unfamiliar sensations. But I don’t have any evidence. Nothing to prove what I really went through or how it felt. Nothing visible, nothing tangible. I can feel it. The damage is there, but it’s ghost damage, haunting my body like it’s a goddamn Victorian manor. No one can see it but me. No one knows it’s there except for me.

I adjust the neck of my hospital gown.

“Can I go now?” I ask.

“Yes, you can go. You can take some ibuprofen. Change the bandages tonight, or first thing tomorrow morning at the latest. This ointment on your head and your side,” he says, handing Scarlett a white tube. “I can come by the house tomorrow afternoon and take a look. See how you’re healing.”

“Do you make house calls for all of your patients or am I special?”

“You’re special,” he says. “I’m very glad you’re okay.”

“Are you, though?” I ask.

He closes his eyes.

—

On the drive home, Scarlett and I stop for chai lattes at the shiny new Starbucks. We drink them at one of the tables outside, despite the drizzle. We enjoy our beautiful view of the parking lot.

“How long did they say?” I ask. We’re talking about my poor car, the one I got just days ago.

“Three weeks,” she says. “But who knows? You’re welcome to share mine, but then you’ll be trapped at the house while I’m at work. Might want to get a rental.”

“Balls.”

“Yep,” she says, removing the lid of her cup to sip.

Usually, she does this to preserve her perfect red lip, but she’s not wearing any lipstick. It’s so rare to see her without it. I’ve been living with her for two weeks and this is the first time I’ve seen her face bare. It’s the first thing she does when she wakes up. Washes her face, brushes her teeth, applies lipstick. Then the black cat eye, of course, her precision immaculate.

Sometimes she’ll offer to do my makeup. Whenever she does, I always say yes.

“Is it like doing your own?” I asked her once.

“Kind of,” she said. “It is but it isn’t.”

When I’ve got on the red lip and black eyeliner, we look the same. Except my hair isn’t blue. I guess hers isn’t either, technically.

“I thought of you last night,” I say, watching the parking lot. A titanic SUV attempts to back into a space that is for sure too small. “About how I was relieved we don’t have that twin thing. Where we can feel what the other feels.”

“Yeah, I slept through the whole thing,” she says. “I used to be a night owl. Lately I can barely make it past midnight.”

“Midnight is late.”

“No, it isn’t,” she says.

I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about what happened last night, which is a relief, because I don’t feel like talking about it either. I don’t want to think about it. What I want is to enjoy my chai latte without reliving my suffering. To sit in this suburban parking lot on this overcast day with my sister and just be.