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“It wouldn’t be my work if it wasn’t.” He winks and holds out his fist for a bump. Both hands are covered in tattoos. His knuckles read HERE and NOW; I tap a fist to his.

“Let’s do this.” He rolls behind me on his stool and I hear him snap on a new set of gloves, and then it’s quiet for a bit, I assume he’s making sure all his tools are set the way he likes them. Before long I hear the familiar buzz of the tattoo machine. “First line.”

The needle works steadily, scratching a hot line across my flesh. I’ve done the therapy, I’ve said the words out loud. This is supposed to be the final step to erase the evidence of my past. It’s merely a task on my to-do list. Instead, I’m met with a rush of heat clawing up my chest, and the lump in my throat resurfaces.

Each line releases more grief, reclaiming the mine that was formed with hate-fueled hands and a screwdriver.

That’s when the tears come. Blinking them back doesn’t help, which annoys me more than anything. Discreetly, I swipe them from my face, but collecting myself is like trying to close a closet door that’s been packed too full. Memories keep spilling out, no matter how hard I attempt to shove them back in. This isn’t a fight I’m going to win, so I surrender.

The old flashbacks resurface, but they don’t bring pain like they used to, this time it feels like letting go. A thread of acceptance weaves between them, helping to close the wound. In a past life, I would have numbed overwhelming thoughts with substances, done anything to shut down and put them to sleep.

My thoughts are distracted momentarily by Casper nudging a box of tissues in front of me. No judgment. No pity. No commentary. I take it from him, plucking out a tissue and pressing it to my wet face, grateful for his discretion.

My past has been held in these scars, but it doesn’t control me anymore—I’m no longer that person. Some versions of ourselves can’t survive the challenges in front of us; they have to die to allow something stronger to emerge and carry us through. Like a caterpillar into a moth.

CASPER

I’m not surprised she got hit by an emotional wave, with a scar like this it’d be stranger if she didn’t. I don’t know the story behind it and I’m not going to ask—I’ll figure it out on my own. It’s faster than waiting for her to tell me.

I’ve been monitoring her location via the tracker on her car for a month, I’ve never seen someone so regimented. I’ve infiltrated the unencrypted camera feeds near her house; she leaves at exactly the same time every morning to jog. I’ve covertly tagged along when she grocery shops a few times—Friday night at eight p.m.—and she works her way through the store in the exact same pattern. It’s not that I was following her, we just happened to have parallel errands every Friday night for three weeks in a row. From what I can tell she buys the same ingredients too, and never makes an impulse purchase from the checkout lane.

Thursday night she attends dance. I work during those hours but have driven by the studio on my way to the shop. According to their website they have all sorts of open classes; I’m guessing it’s some ballet thing based on how disciplined she is. On Tuesdays she attends NA at the community center. I thought about showing up since I don’t work, but after I pulled up, there weren’t enough cars in the parking lot to allow me to blend in without being noticed.

Beyond that, she doesn’t leave the house. At all. She’s not normal. Which is why I’m approaching my research with reckless curiosity. It’s strictly academic, and I plan to get as much out of her as I can during our appointments.

After about forty minutes, her body visibly relaxes and she settles into the session. I shoot my shot at a conversation.

“How’s the pain?”

She chuckles. “Seriously?”

“Listen, I know you’re a big tough badass, but I’m going over scar tissue. Do you notice any more pain than usual?”

“Oh. No, seems all right.”

“Glad to hear it . . . Ready for your snacks yet?”

“Sure.”

I stop the buzzing and sit back. “Tall cabinet to the right.”

She leans over and opens the narrow door, revealing several shelves. I keep most of my supplies in the drawers and other overhead cabinets. This one is for personal stuff, like winter jackets, an extra sweatshirt—and as of today—snacks for Anna.

I notice the corner of her mouth turn up as she takes out the basket I’ve filled with various granola bars, applesauce pouches, crackers, chips, gummy bears, chocolate, and a handful of suckers.

“Wow.”

“I’ve received a ‘wow’ and ‘impressive’ before your tattoo is even finished. This feels like flirting. Confirm or deny.”

She snags a couple packs of gummy bears, an applesauce pouch, and a sucker. Sweet tooth.

“Deny,” she says. “Do you often confuse compliments for flirting?”

“When they come from you, yes.”

She tears open the gummy bear wrapper. “Interesting interpretation.”

“If you were nicer to me I wouldn’t have to jump to conclusions. Just because I’m tall doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.”