I stayed near the door.
My mother waited outside.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, “Show me your hands.”
His face tightened.
“Mara—”
“Show me.”
Slowly, he held them out.
Both palms were scarred.
Not as visibly as my face. Not the kind of scars people noticed from across a room. But close up, they were unmistakable—shiny patches across the base of his fingers, lines where skin had tightened, pale ridges curving over the meat of his palms.
He saw me staring.
“I grabbed the handle of the back door,” he said quietly. “It was already hot. When it wouldn’t open, I broke the kitchen window with your toy truck.”
My breath caught.
“The fire truck.”
“You were holding it when I found you. I used it because it was metal.”
The image came back in pieces.
Orange light.
Smoke.
A boy coughing.
Glass bursting inward.
