No shower for a while, and she’s starting to feel it–when she runs a hand through her hair it won’t come down until she smoothes it. Sometimes that’s hours. Probably shouldn’t have cut it myself, thinks Holly, or so short.

Every morning she makes herself look at the picture (at least she still gets up). It’s a Polaroid of the three of them, in the park, last August; somebody held it wrong while it developed, and there’s one pale splotch of sky stained white. In the middle, a blurred Frisbee is baby-new pink: the color of skin under a scab.