Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned her floral robe.
Sophie said nothing.
Margaret lifted her undershirt.
Then she turned around.
The sponge slipped from Sophie’s fingers.
It hit the floor.
Margaret’s entire back was scarred.
The tissue began beneath her shoulder blades.
It stretched almost to her waist.
The skin was thick.
Twisted.
Uneven.
It looked like melted wax.
Sophie forgot how to breathe.
She had seen surgical scars.
She had seen burns.
She had seen pressure wounds.
This was different.
This was old.
Very old.
And severe.
“My God.”
Sophie’s voice broke.
“Who did this to you?”
Margaret closed her eyes.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she whispered.
“My husband.”
Sophie stared at her.
Margaret’s husband had been dead for fifteen years.
At least that was what Sophie remembered from her file.
Margaret lowered her shirt.
“No.”
Sophie stepped closer.
“Margaret, you don’t have to tell me anything.”
