The robed gentleman came over. He looked down at Vivienne’s head. “I lament,” he said.
Andy said, “Baby, your scalp is singed.” He touched her head. “There’s a big clot. I need to get you to a doctor.”
“No doctors, I have a book to finish.”
“Let me help you, baby, take all the pictures you want, we’ll finish it together.”
Not since Martin Hirsch in Vietnam had anyone offered to help her. Her primary lesion was Vietnam when she was fifteen, turning sixteen that November, and just getting started. After that, they admired her, but she waded in close to death and that scared some souls who felt Vivienne’s close-up shots of the morbid might infect them. People not in the photographs thought their souls might be stolen. Andy offered to partner with her; he was touching her burned scalp with
