Her kneecaps were crushed and her eyes crossed. There were bandages around her throat and bandages up to her elbows. Her exposed skin was bruised like an explosion, fire dark and orange. “Are you okay?” I said, the stupidest thing I could say. The dogs ran out the door and surrounded her, whining, licking. I wheeled her into the house and they followed, tails tucked, heads down. “I have bones that will never heal again,” she said, “but that’s not important. You need to dye your hair. Now.” Fatigue kept me from asking why. “With what?” “There’s dye and bleach underneath the sink. In the bathroom.” I went into the bathroom, found the dye and the bleach. I bleached my hair, washed it out. I sat in the bathtub and massaged the dye in the hair. Washed it out. I emerged from the bathroom, a redhead. The police knocked on the door. They were looking for two ragged girls who broke into a house on the west side and stole dresses and jewelry, one blonde-haired and one black-haired.
