Page 46 of Life Or Death

“Do you want help getting to your room? I can pull the sheets back for you.”

I shake my head. “I’d rather hang out in here. If I go to my room, I’ll probably just pass out.”

“Okay.” She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I’m happy you’re home.”

I want to tell her that I’m happy to be home too, but the words get stuck in my throat, so I just smile instead.

The next morning, I wake before the sun rises. Well, that’s not entirely true. One has to actually sleep to wake up, and I did none of that. I was too worried I’d have a nightmare, and I didn’t want to wake Poppy by screaming. That would traumatize the poor kid.

So, about an hour ago, I decided I would just stay up. That I’d try to get some sleep once Tori took Poppy to camp.

I’m slow to move as I head for the kitchen, but once I make it, I head straight for the coffeepot on the counter. I open the cabinet where we keep the grinds and go to pull out the canister when my fingers brush against a stack of envelopes, all marked with a bright red stamp.

PAST DUE. FINAL NOTICE. SHUT-OFF WARNING.

I flip through them slowly. The electric bill is two months behind. Her cell phone bill too. There’s a cancellation notice for her car insurance and a letter from the landlord that I’m afraid to open.

I had surmised this was happening when she started taking on more shifts, but seeing the proof makes me feel even more guilty.

“Aunt Jess?”

The sound of Poppy’s voice startles me, and I quickly shove the bills back inside the cabinet before turning around to greet her.

“Jesus, Poppy. You scared me.”

She shrugs sheepishly and pads to the breakfast nook, rubbing her eyes. Her hair is a tangled mess of curls, and she’s missing a sock.

The sight makes me smile.

“What are you doing up so early?”

Another shrug. She picks at a loose thread on her pajama sleeve, then looks up at me.

“It’s too hot in my room. The air conditioning doesn’t work.” Her gaze transfixes on my forehead, and she hesitates for a beat before she asks, “Does that hurt?”

I reach up instinctively, my fingers finding the raised line of scar tissue that runs from my hairline to my eyebrow. It’s one of the only parts of me that is numb to the touch.

“No,” I say. “Not anymore.”

She nods slowly, processing this. Then her gaze drops to my legs, visible beneath the shorts I slept in. The grafts are angry and red. The skin pulls taut across my calves where the burns were deepest. She stares at them the way kids stare at things they’ve been told not to stare at—openly and unapologetically.

I should’ve put on pants before I left my room.

“What about your legs?” she asks. “I heard my mom say they took skin from your hip to cover where the burns were.”

“Yeah,” I say carefully. “They did. It’s called a skin graft. They take healthy skin from one place and put it where the skin got hurt really bad.”

“Does that hurt?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “But it’s getting better.”

Poppy absorbs this, her face serious. Then she leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands.

“Can I see the place where they took the skin?”

The question disarms me. Aside from the medical professionals, no one else has seen the donor site.

Hell, I can’t even look at it myself.