Instead, she watched him rub the end of his leg as though trying to erase the silvery scars and red crease marks left from the sleeve, then thrust it toward the camera, rotating the stump end. “There you have it, one gnarly transtibial—” He did a double take at the camera and then his face turned to stone. He looked a long time. Not a word, his expression hard. The vulnerability made her feel like a pillar of ash bracing for the threat of wind. Her throat constricted. She tensed her muscles against a shiver as a fresh flood of despair ripped through her. She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to look at the expressionless mask he wore. Instead, she visualized possible tattoos she could get to cover her scars, ones she’d seen online from women brave enough to share photographs of themselves. Lushly drawn peacocks in the colors of brilliant jewels, bright daisies and roses, red and gold dragons. Someday, she’d make her body beautiful like that, too, but she had to wait for her scars to shrink and her swelling to disappear.
