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I reach the place where the leg was severed. I roll the bandage down to expose it.
The three of us stare.
The bathroom light is unforgiving.
Where her leg had been crudely ripped apart—skin shredded, bone snapped, muscle meat torn like a turkey drumstick—there is smooth, unblemished white skin.
– 19 –
“There isn’t even a scar,” Aislin murmurs.
We all stare for a while. I extend shaking fingers toward my leg.
I need to touch to believe.
The skin isn’t even bumpy. It’s not just smooth. It’s absolutely identical to the way it was before the accident.
I push the bandages down farther. It’s li
ke taking off a very tight legging. All the way to my knee, just in case, just in case memory is playing some weird trick on me.
“We’re awake, right?” I ask.
Solo stands up. He sets the scissors on the counter. “It’s been like this for days. By the second day everything was fine. By the third day the scars would have already been disappearing. Day four?” He lifts his shoulders. “There can be variations, it’s not an exact thing.”
Aislin seems to have forgotten her own injuries. “That’s not possible. Is it?”
“Solo,” I say. He has the answers. I can tell.
“Have you ever had a scrape or a skinned knee that lasted more than a day?” he asks.
“Um … I don’t know.” I scroll back over a lifetime of Band-Aids. “Who keeps track?”
“Cuts? Bruises?” Solo leans back against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. “Toothaches?”
“I’m an excellent flosser,” I say defensively.
“Colds? Flu?”
My heart is hammering. “I use Purell?” I say with a weak smile. “How many colds have you had in your life?”
Solo tenses. He starts to say something, then catches himself. “We’re talking about you.”
“She never gets sick,” Aislin says softly. “Like … never. She doesn’t even get cramps.”
I shoot her a look.
She holds up her hands in a placating gesture. “Well, it’s true.”
“So I’m the picture of health. I’m lucky,” I say. Gingerly I touch my thigh.
Solo shakes his head. “No one is that lucky.”
“Wait! I know!” I cry triumphantly. “When I was around two I had heart surgery.” I am weirdly relieved by this fact. “It was some valve thing. Congenital. They repaired it, though. With pig tissue, actually.”
Aislin frowns. “Like … bacon?”
“No,” Solo says to me. “They didn’t repair it surgically.”
