Gwynn sat on his bed, inspecting the scarred mess covering his right arm. It burned and itched. The markings played across his flesh from the elbow and onto his hand. They held some meaning, but it eluded him like the whispers of a dream. When he stared at them long enough, the answer seemed so close, something he could reach out and take. But it always danced away before comprehension solidified.

"We're not too sure how," the doctor at the hospital said, "but you are completely healed."

"So? Why's that a problem?" Jaimie asked.

"Ms. Roberts, please try to understand," Doctor Saduj huffed. He pushed his heavy glasses further up his nose and scratched at the wrinkled skin of his forehead. "When Gwynn arrived in hospital, he had several broken ribs, a punctured lung, and head trauma. He remained comatose for four days, and we had every reason to believe the possibility of extensive brain damage. Now, after a total of seven days, he is completely healed."

"Again, what's wrong with that?"

"There's nothing wrong with it" Doctor Saduj failed to hide how flustered he'd become. "Except it's impossible. Not only has he healed at an accelerated rate, but there's no indication the injuries ever existed. Even when bones heal, they leave evidence of the previous break. None of that exists. It's as if the injuries never happened."

Fire filled his aunt's eyes. She hadn't birthed him, she might not have been ready to be his mother, but neither of those facts kept her from a fierce defense. "That's not our problem. Is it safe for him to go home?"

"Well, yes," Doctor Saduj spluttered. "We would like to do some more tests to try and understand how— "

"No. There will be no more tests." Jaimie turned to Gwynn, her small form full of power and determination towering over all others in the room. "Gwynn, get dressed. We're leaving. Thank you, Doctor, I'm sure Gwynn's speedy recovery is due to your outstanding care."

Doctor Saduj shrugged. The doctor didn't think for a moment his care cured Gwynn, but the droop of his shoulders and the distant look in his eyes spoke of defeat at Jaimie's hands.

Seven days after admission with life-threatening injuries, Gwynn left the hospital. He should've been ecstatic, felt blessed. But doubt, cold and gnawing at his innards, kept a simple question ever–present in his mind; why am I alive?

When his parents died, he felt angry. Why had they died? Why did his dad have to switch jobs anyway? If they just stayed where they were...

To ask why he survived never occurred to him. At the age of eight, you expected to live, death seemed odd. Being older, he understood people died for far less. How many people sidestepped the reaper twice? If this was luck, how long would it hold?

Life changed. His room, exactly as he'd been comfortable in for years, today seemed cold and foreign. The white walls, barren of posters and color, loomed high and seemed too close.

Gwynn pulled a long–sleeved shirt over his head. It did nothing to cover the scars on his hand. He couldn't recall a time when the opinions of others meant much to him. But the scars were private. The thought of someone else seeing them filled him with uncertainty, like a dirty secret. Gwynn searched the room for something to cover his hand. Nothing on his floor or the small desk with his computer proved of any use. His eyes fell on his dresser and inspiration took hold. The top drawer contained socks and underwear, the second, sweaters. The third, and bottom–most, drawer had clothes he classed as other. He rooted around the drawer, digging to the bottom. A search rewarded him with a pair of biking gloves. The black gloves had leather sewn to the palm, and the fingers cut off. Aunt Jaimie purchased them. But Gwynn preferred to feel the rubber of his bike handles, so the gloves were retired. Gwynn slipped on the right-hand glove. He flexed his hand a couple of times and left the bedroom behind.

The smell of breakfast cooking awaited him.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" He asked Jaimie as she stacked pancakes on a plate.

"I took the day off. I thought, maybe I should be available. You know, in case..."

"I go postal at school?"

She gave him a strained smile. "I thought if you decided it was too soon to be back at school, you might appreciate a friendly face at home."

Gwynn threw his arms around her. Her body stiffened with surprise, but then relaxed and she returned his embrace.

"Thanks, Jaimie."

She sniffled. "Come on, are you telling me you don't like having pancakes ready for breakfast?"

"Freshly cooked instead of nuked? Yeah, I'm not going to complain."

Complaining around the warm, syrupy morsels stuffed in his mouth would've been impossible anyway. Jaimie gave him a warm smile. Her eyes fell on Gwynn's gloved hand, and her face hardened.

"Aren't you going to get a hard time about that?"

"Better than people staring at the scars."

"You don't have to go in you know. Take a few more days off."

Gwynn shook his head while he chewed. He swallowed loudly. "I'm going to have to go back eventually. Besides, I've got a few days of work to catch up on already. I don't need to fall any further behind."

"You're hoping to see Sophia?" Jaimie wore a sly smile.

Gwynn caught her eyes for a moment, and then mumbled around a mouthful of pancake, "Maybe."

With breakfast finished, Gwynn thanked Jaimie and grabbed his backpack.

"You want a ride?" she asked.

The offer tempted Gwynn— November arrived wet and cold. But something in him wanted to feel the wind biting his skin. He wanted to smell the oncoming snow. Mostly, he didn't want to arrive at school looking like an invalid.

"I'm good. Thanks."

Despite the doubt crossing her face, she didn't press him.

"Anything you want for dinner?"

"Homemade breakfast and dinner on the same day? I should get blown up more often."

Her face told him he shouldn't joke, but he couldn't help it. He faced his mortality, and if he couldn't laugh, if he couldn't force it down into the dark places where the loss of his parents lived, he'd lose his mind.

"Sorry. I'm good with anything. I'll trust you."

She shook her head. Jaimie hated it when he was noncommittal.

"Have a good day Gwynn. If you want to come home— "

"I'll call. Promise."

Out in the morning air, the cold wrapped around Gwynn and prickled at the exposed flesh of his face. The gray sky cast odd shadows and washed out the finer details of the world. Dark clouds filled the sky. They filled him with a dread he couldn't explain.