MICHAEL
In the shower, I discovered a lot of scars. Old and new, mostly trivial, some of them suspect-looking. A small sun in scar tissue on either side of my right thigh, alarmingly high up and close to the family jewels. A thin, twisted scar next to my navel. Some other long, thin scars on my forearms, and one across my lower back.
I touch the sunburst-shaped ones as the water slowly washes dried blood out of my hair, and something in my rattled brain fires properly. For a moment, I hear a gunshot, and then a hard impact on my leg, like someone just punched me. I look down and am surprised to see blood.
Then I blink, and it goes away, and I'm looking at a scar again. This is a gunshot wound. Someone tried to cripple me—or castrate me—long ago. Now, I don’t even feel a twinge from it.
