<h4>Chapter 43: Grace: Scars</h4>


    The campground is a little ce about five miles off the highway, surrounded by trees. It’s like a sardine tin of RVs, but we’re lucky enough to have an empty spot beside ours.


    Of course, it isn’t empty anymore—Andrew’s taken it. Apparently, he has a tent, too.


    With all the slides extended, Lyre’s camper transforms from cramped travel mode to something that could rival a small apartment. The living area in the back boasts two plush couches and a daybed, arranged in a U-shape around a TV that looks absurdlyrge when you consider we are technically camping. The Wi-Fi signal from the campground is surprisingly strong, and once Lyre leaves for her mysterious errand, I spend hours browsing through her streaming ounts.


    I flip mindlessly through shows I’ve never heard of, content to let a few hours slip by. She’s forbidden me from leaving the camper, warning me not to let anyone in, leaving me itching a little over the feeling of being confined. How easily I trade one form of captivity for another. At least this prisones with Netflix. Besides, Lyre isn’t about to kill me.


    I’m at least ny percent certain, anyway. There’s always the ten percent she’s waiting for me to let my guard down before chopping me to bits, but it’s a risk I’ve already taken at this point.


    The rest of my day wastes away in a blur of fictional dramas far lessplicated than my life, yet riveting. As evening shadows stretch across the campground, the familiar rumble of Lyre’s truck engine announces her return. The door swings open momentster, bringing with it the savory aroma of Chinese food.


    "Hungry?" Lyre asks, triumphant smile brightening her face as she holds up a paper bag heavy with takeout containers.


    My stomach growls in response. I haven’t eaten since the truck stop burger. While Lyre gave me full permission to raid her pantry and fridge, it felt odd to do it while she was gone.


    "I brought you something else too." She passes me a small brown paper bag.


    I peer inside, finding what appears to be an artisanal jar of body butter. When I unscrew the lid, the sweet scent of coconut wafts up, rich and tropical.


    "Scar treatment," Lyre exins, setting the food on the counter and beginning to unpack it. "For your back."


    I freeze, the jar suspended halfway to my nose. "My back?"


    "You were whipped, right?" She says it so casually, likementing on the weather. "It’s for those scars."


    Blood drains from my face. She’s never seen me shirtless. "How do you know about that?"


    Lyre nces over her shoulder, expression neutral. "I saw them when I was helping you wash out the bleach. Through the gap here." She points at the back of her shirt cor. "Hard to miss."


    My mind races back to the bathroom, to standing bent over, head in the shower while Lyre rinsed my hair.


    "How long did it take to heal?" she asks, separating chopsticks with a clean snap.


    The question’s odd, but then again, everything about Lyre is odd. "Overnight. It wasn’t as bad as you’d think." Of course, then there was the next night... And the next...


    Lyre hums thoughtfully, her eyes never leaving mine as she passes me a container of lo mein.


    "Interesting. You had your wrist wrapped when we met, right? And it’s still bruised a few dayster."


    I nce down at the ugly purple-green marks circling my wrist where Ellie had grabbed me. The bruises have faded slightly, and my wrist still hurts when I use it too much, but it’s healing.


    "So how does a terrible wound like a whipping heal overnight," Lyre continues, twirling noodles around her chopsticks, "when your wrist is still hurting dayster?"


    The question catches me off guard. I’ve never thought about it before.


    "The whips weren’t really that bad," I offermely, picking at my food.


    "Bad enough to scar, though."


    I fall silent, staring at the jar of scar cream as I poke at my lo mein.


    "Have you had other instances where wounds healed abnormally fast?" Lyre’s voice is casual, but her eyes are too sharp. She knows something.


    My heart races.


    "I don’t think so—" I begin, then stop, remembering one. Maybe. The details are hazy. "When I was twelve, my parents died in a home invasion gone wrong."


    The words are rote by now; it’s my story, the one I’ve told several times. A summary of a bleak time in my life.


    Mom and Dad died.


    Three dayster, Alpha picked me up.


    But what happened in those three days? That’s where it gets hazy. I remember being in the hospital, but I don’t remember being hurt.


    "Were you hurt?" Lyre asks, as if she can hear what I’m thinking.


    "I don’t know. Maybe. I remember being in the hospital." For some reason, I’ve always remembered the hospital, but I remember thinking it was because of my parents.


    But I have no memory of seeing Mom or Dad in the hospital.


    Pain stabs through my head as I work through the timeline, and I shake my head abruptly. Whatever secret is buried there can stay there. Mom’s my mom. Dad’s my dad. Maybe we should just leave it at that. "Never mind."


    "Hmm." Lyre slurps a noodle louder than is necessary, pointing at my container with her chopsticks. "Eat." The word is clear, even with her mouth full.


    I grab my lo mein and make my way to the dte. The small booth offers the perfect view of the TV, a wee distraction from the sudden bomb Lyre’s thrown my way.


    My head continues to ache, even though I stopped prodding at old, awful memories.


    Lyre slides in across from me, her multicolored hair catching the overhead light. "Aren’t you curious?"


    "No." I shake my head decisively, stabbing at the noodles with my chopsticks. "Not curious at all."


    Her mouth quirks up at one corner as she studies me. She reaches across with her chopsticks, fishing through her container until she plucks out a shrimp and ces it deliberately on top of my noodles. "Eat more. You’re going to need the energy."


    Thement makes me pause mid-bite. "Why would I need energy?"


    Lyre’s eyes flicker toward the door. The movement is quick, but I catch it—a sh of alertness, almost like she’s listening for something. "Just a feeling I have."


    I narrow my eyes, lowering my chopsticks. "You know something, don’t you? You’ve been cryptic and weird since we stopped at that truck stop earlier today, even changing our ns and camping here instead of driving longer."


    As I’m talking, Lyre leans across the table, snags the shrimp she’d just ced in my container, and shoves it in my mouth.


    "Stop being so anxious and just enjoy dinner." She settles back into her seat with a huff. "I’ll apply the scar cream when you’re done eating."


    The shrimp is perfectly cooked, tender with just enough spice, but I’m too distracted to appreciate it fully. I chew and swallow before responding.


    "Don’t worry about it. I’m not in a hurry."


    Lyre squints at me, her slitted eyes narrowing further. "It’s probably better for everyone if you just deal with it."


    Myugh is half-snort, half-chuckle. "You’re acting like my scars are somehow a life and death issue."


    Lyre stares at me for a long time. Long enough for me to take two bites before realizing she’s still watching me with a deadpan expression.


    When I pause, trying to figure out what I said, she lets out a deep sigh. "It must be nice to be oblivious," she muses, sounding genuinely envious.


    I point my chopsticks at her, my eyebrows jamming together. "That! That’s the cryptic stuff you’ve been doing since earlier."


    "upational hazard," Lyre says, as if that’s any sort of exnation at all. "Either eat or take your shirt off."


    I blink at the stark options, then stuff arge bite of noodles into my mouth.