Part 10 (1/2)

”I'm glad you're here,” I said. ”Thank you for coming.”

”There's no way I was going to let you go through this alone. Besides, I kind of like you.”

I smiled. ”The feeling's mutual.”

”Night,” she said. ”Sweet dreams.”That night I dreamt I was kissing McKale. When I pulled back, it was really Falene.

CHAPTER Eight

Looking at someone's brain is a little like looking at the outside of a movie theater.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

The morning of the nineteenth my father drove us to the hospital several hours before my scheduled surgery time, so we'd have plenty of time to wind our way through the labyrinth of admissions. After filling out a pile of forms, we sat in the waiting room for nearly an hour before I was called to the preoperative holding area, where they put me in one of those ill-fitting, tie-in-back gowns, then sent at least a dozen people in to see me in my humbled state.

”You look cute,” Nicole said, lifting her phone. ”I'm taking a picture.”

”No pictures,” I said.

She brought out her phone. ”I'm taking one anyway.”

”No pictures,” I said again.

She snapped a picture. ”Too late.”

Shortly before surgery a young man came in to shave my head, which, considering the length of my hair, was no simple feat. When he was done, I just stared at myself in the mirror.

”I'm bald.”

”As a bowling ball,” Nicole said.

”A billiard ball,” my father corrected.

”They're both hairless,” I said.

”Like you,” Nicole said.

”Thanks. Are you going to take another picture?”

”No.” She held up a lock of my hair. ”But I'm keeping this.”

”You know, they didn't have to shave all of it,” my dad said. ”They could have shaved just one side.”

”What do you do with half a head of hair?” I asked. ”That's like half a mustache.”

”Or one eyebrow,” Nicole said. ”Then again, you could have had the mother of all comb-overs.”

”Being here reminds me of when you were seven,” my father said. ”You had to get your tonsils out. That used to be considered major surgery.”