Here, days stopped existing. They were numbered. Today is day fifty two. My daughter grinned when I told her, and nestled under the crook of my arm, calculating when she would see me again.
Purple tulips had grown along the hospital grounds. I ached, remembering my wife scrounging through the flower beds. Her skin smelt like oranges. She hadn’t visited since day forty.
A boy called to me; “Is your hair ever going to grow back?” His mother shushed him, her face crimson.
My daughter stirred, her eyes wet. They locked with my bald head.
“Well,” she asked. “Is it?”
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