His scar goes from his left hairy nipple, zigzags and goes up and around his chest and under his armpit. Little nicks along the zigzag resemble fern fronds. A rounded chunk of flesh is missing on the lower right side. Thin, finger-long welts dent his pasty belly. The man is holding his turtleneck sweater up, and the camera angle decapitates him. Brett traces his finger across the white man’s scar. His work shirt rises, exposing the waistband of his pink underwear. The fear and desire that I am experiencing is so palpable that I might collapse and die this morning. Father could catch Brett in my room, and Brett and I could end up carved up like the man in the picture. Instead of a stark white background, a silver exam table would be behind us. Fortunately, the job that Father left for ten minutes ago is an elaborate wedding fifteen miles away. “All these photos on the wall,” Brett says. “And you have more photos of women than men. That’s strange considering,”
