What they saw was a barren wasteland, a vast scarred space where there had once been hair. They’d watched him pull it out in clumps after the chemotherapy that kept him alive, watched him stare despondently at his new reflection in the mirror as his wife sat by him, one arm around his shoulders.
What he saw was a blank canvas, somewhere he could give his triumph a face—his wife’s face. He wore the picture of her on his skin like a neon sign, a message in block capitals for everyone to see:
I survived. And this is why.
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