“That means the skin grafts are settling,” she said.

“They still feel tight when I try to make a fist,” I said.

“The scars will stay, Natalie,” Rachel said gently. “But the mobility will come back.”

She reached out and squeezed my forearm.

“We should go,” she said. “The lawyers are waiting.”

***

Two weeks later, the sky was a clear, hard blue.

The courtroom was packed with reporters and court onlookers.

I sat in the front row of the gallery, right behind the prosecution’s table.

The air in the room smelled of old wood, wet wool coats, and floor wax.

Judge Vance adjusted her reading glasses and looked down from her high bench.

She did not look at the cameras.

She looked directly at Ethan and Margaret.

They sat side by side at the defense table, wearing matching orange jumpsuits.

Margaret’s hair was completely gray now, parted unevenly down the middle.

Ethan’s collar was loose, showing the pale skin of his throat.

Arthur Pendelton sat three chairs down, his head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him.