When, at ten years old, I was admitted to the Burn Unit of Norgree Pediatric Hospital, at first I was alone.

Franklin Durgo had been so kind as to lock the schoolyard gate with a padlock, leaving me outside in that square of cement.

It was the last week of fifth grade. The heat had been unbearable even indoors, but as soon as I stepped out into the sun, I felt myself burning like bacon in hot oil.

But the teachers had insisted that I stay outside and play with the others.

Play.

Oh, please.

I didn't play with those losers. They were a bunch of idiots.

So, I stayed on my own, minding my own business, until I heard Franklin's voice shouting, "Skinny Bone is here with me! We're all here!" Then the door slamming shut and the sound of keys.

The sun was perfectly overhead, the only shadow in the entire courtyard was the round spot surrounding my feet.

At first, I didn't panic, I had put on sunscreen recently, and someone would notice that I was missing.

And it was true, eventually, after several hours, someone did notice.

When they came looking for me, they found me curled up on the ground, legs pulled up to my chest, and my face buried against the floor. The heat from the cement was less intense than that of the sun. I had used my arms to try to further shield my head.

The back of my neck, where I wasn't protected by my shirt, had started burning first. The pain had grown gradually, slowly.

It had spread from my neck to my arms, then to my hands.

When they found me, I had already lost consciousness.

...

My mother quickly took control of my hospital room, lowering the blinds on the windows and turning off all the lights.

She was slightly hysterical, oscillating between cuddling and pampering me like a poor invalid, to threatening to sue all the teachers, the principal, and even the parents of the kid who locked me out.

Despite the annoyance of the bandages and being half out of it from the painkillers, I wasn't doing too badly. Second-degree burns on 15% of my body, scattered over arms, neck, ankles.

I spent a couple of days eating ice cream and watching cartoons on my tablet. My bed was surrounded by balloons and stuffed animals.

"And you know what else would make me feel better?" I whimpered with the highest-pitched voice I could muster.

My mother was sitting on the chair where she had slept the previous night, listening to my umpteenth request with only one ear.

"A new TV for my room."

"Aren't you exaggerating, Ben?" She said it with a tone that almost wanted to be stern.

Sure. I would find my new TV boxed up in the living room.

"And you know what else..." I didn't even know what else I could ask for, but I was interrupted before I could find inspiration.

Three people burst into the room pushing a bed. Someone was asleep on it: a boy, or a girl, I couldn't tell.

Back then I didn't know, but that bed had been pushed back and forth across the hospital for almost a week, between intensive care and operating rooms.

My mother got up from the chair, her gaze fixed on the newcomer.

The three doctors positioned the bed in front of mine. They murmured to each other, touched the patient and all the strange instruments around him.

Then two of them left, and one stayed.

"Good morning," said my mother, who had never been able to mind her own business. "Are you the mother?"

The person who stayed just said, "No, I'm sorry." And then left, leaving the child alone.

...

At three weeks of age, I was diagnosed with oculocutaneous albinism. I was born with some white tufts on my head and eyes already squinting against the bright neon lights of the delivery room.

I was put up for adoption right away, and at two months I was officially adopted by Natalie Nicholson.

Natalie was the type of woman who, when faced with a list of adoptable children, ticked all the available options and left a note of "very gladly" under the child marked "severely disabled" (which was still an outrageous exaggeration).

This is to say that my mother had a tender heart. A bit too tender. The kind of tender that people take advantage of.

And so, on the day they admitted a child to the Burn Unit of Norgree Pediatric Hospital, my mother was there, with her eyes fixed on the door waiting for a parent, an uncle, an older sister... anyone who was taking care of that child.

And when no one showed up, my mother did what people like her do: she took a piece of her heart and gave it to that child.

Half of my balloons and stuffed animals were transferred to the other bed.

Now, the time she spent worrying in one armchair was divided in two, over two different armchairs.

I, on the other hand, stayed in my bed, playing with my tablet and nursing resentment.

I was her son. It should have been that boy's mother taking care of him, not mine.

I hated him. He hadn't even woken up yet, but I already hated him.

...

That night, I waited for my mother to fall asleep in her armchair. Our light was off, but the corridor light was on and it flowed inside, giving me perfect visibility.

I landed on the hospital's cold tiles, ignoring the painful tingling that pulled at the new thin skin over the burns. Stealthily, I crossed the room towards the other bed.

Now that I was close, and with the right light, I could see him well. He was older than me, maybe a year or two older, but it was hard to tell. Bandages covered him everywhere, arms, legs, neck, and even parts of his face. I couldn't see under the hospital gown, but the bandages seemed to continue even to his chest.

He was hooked up to tubes that ended in bags hanging on a pole.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, I just knew that I hated him and I wanted him to know it too.

I was guided by inspiration. I noticed that the bandage around his right arm was thicker than the others, and I assumed that was the worst burn.

I took his arm gently, and then I started squeezing, and squeezing, until the boy opened his eyes with a groan.

I withdrew my hand and smiled, keeping my head tilted down to try to frame him in my null spot.

The boy was looking at me bewildered. It was the painkillers, they really messed with your head.

"W-who are you?"

"Benjamin Nicholson," I introduced myself and gestured to my bed. "We're roommates. And you? Who are you?"

That guy looked around like a drunkard. He noticed the tubes and immediately yanked them as if they personally offended him.

"Hey there? I asked you a question."

The kid stopped. He turned to look at me, and seemed to have to think about it for a long time.

"Don't you remember your name? You don't seem very awake."

"Casper."

I started giggling. "Like the ghost?"

This Casper had very pronounced expressions, because I noticed his face getting angry. "You're the ghost. You're as white as a corpse. Your hair looks fake."

"But it's real."

Casper tried to sit up, but his attempt was met with grunts and moans like a lamb in a slaughterhouse.

I heard my mother hold her breath. I turned to look at her but couldn't tell if she was awake until she got up to come to us.

"Hey..." She approached with her reassuring voice.

"His name is Casper. Like the ghost." I introduced him diligently, since it seemed to bother him.

The boy didn't have time to tell me to fuck off. My mother was already at his bedside, and he seemed incredibly uncomfortable about it. He was all curled up on himself.

"Hi, Casper. I'm Natalie, I'm Benjamin's mother. I talked to a lady named Nora, she... is taking care of your case, your mother, and your sister. Do you remember what happened? I can call her if you want."

I perked up suddenly, super interested. I wanted to know what had happened too.

Casper, however, only asked where his sister was. He didn't ask about his mother, or this Nora, nor did he confirm or deny remembering.

"I'll call Mrs. Nora right away, she'll know about your sister. But first I'll call the doctor, he needs to know you've woken up."

And so my mother left us alone.

Casper looked around and lingered for a long time on the balloons around his bed. "Where did this stuff come from?"

"They're mine. They're all mine, the balloons, the stuffed animals, and the gifts. My mother gave you some just because she felt sorry for you."

Casper blinked slowly, as if even blinking was too intense an activity. "You're full of friends, I bet."

One of the worst things about being albino is that any tiny embarrassment makes you turn beet red instantly. I hated that anyone could read my humiliation with extreme ease, while most of the time I couldn't distinguish a mocking smile from a friendly one.

"Well, at least I have someone who gives me balloons."

Even with all that followed, I can't deny that meeting Casper that day was a stroke of luck for me. I wasn't becoming the person I wanted to be, and everyone around me treated me like a little demon, or as if my low vision exempted me from any responsibility.

Casper did neither of those things. He just collapsed into the bed, exhausted, and said nothing.

In the silence he forced me into, I realized how horrible what I had just said was. I felt ashamed of myself.

...

I remained next to his bed as the doctors removed his bandages to change them.

He was burnt... everywhere. The right arm was the worst part, I could only see clumps of red flesh. Even the side of the leg and right flank were in bad shape.

I still didn't know what had happened, but I imagined he had crouched down like I had, to avoid the heat, and had used his right arm to shield his face.

My mother also assisted, staying to encourage and comfort him the whole time, even though Casper never made a sound of pain, and didn't complain when it came time to apply that horrible cream that had driven me crazy with burning.

When that torture ended, my mother rushed out to chase the doctors and ask them a thousand questions they wouldn't answer because she wasn't a relative.

"Your mother is kind," Casper said, looking outside, where she had disappeared.

I sat on his bed with my tablet open to a stupid game, just to give the impression I was there because I was bored. "Yeah... overly. If you want a new PlayStation, now's the time to ask her."

All the lights were on, so all the shadows were accentuated; I completely missed the expression he shot me.

"Rich kids are the worst of the worst," he muttered under his breath, then started. "What the hell is up with your eyes?!"

"Oh, they're just doing their dance." I didn't bother explaining what nystagmus is to everyone I meet, I'd have wasted my whole life.

"God... that's freaky."

Mhhh, I felt like squeezing his bandaged arm again.

"How did you get burned?" I asked him, barely suppressing my natural violent instincts.

I heard no response, and saw no change in the confused mass that was currently his face. "Hey there? Are you still awake?"

"I'm awake. Can't you see?"

"Not very well." I got off the bed and rushed to turn off the lights. The contrast between black and white softened, the colors and edges became more defined. I returned to his bed, next to his pillow. I positioned my head to put his face in my null spot, at the top right.

I looked weird when I did that, I was well aware. But at least now I could see him clearly.

"There, now I can see you."

He blinked. His lips were drawn tight, as if he wasn't happy about this conversation at all.

"So? Who turned you into a Crispy McBacon?"

His face scrunched up like a snarling dog. "Tell me what happened to you. You got burnt too."

I shrugged, indifferent. "Some jerk locked me out in the courtyard. The sun burnt me."

"You're in the hospital because the sun burnt you? What kind of sensitive princess are you?"

"Do you have any idea how hot the sun is, dickhead?"

"Hey, hey," my mother's voice made me jump, "such colorful language, Ben..."

"Uhm... sorry, Mom."

She approached until she was by my side. She put her hands on my shoulders, being careful not to touch the still bandaged neck.

"Benjamin is albino. He doesn't have the special shields he needs to protect himself from the sun, so he always has to wear sunscreen, otherwise he risks getting very badly burnt, or developing dangerous illnesses."

"Oh, I didn't know," Casper replied, with a strange thin voice. "Um- thanks for the balloons, ma'am."

"You can call me Natalie, if you want. Don't worry, Ben was happy to share. Right, Ben?"

I nodded as I lowered my hand, hidden from my mother's view, to show him my elegant middle finger.

Casper smiled at me.