His face was scarred, a pale line running from his temple to his jaw, and his left eye was clouded gray. But it was not the scar that stopped my breath. It was the freckle beneath his ear, shaped like a crescent. I had felt that exact mark, years ago, when a frightened boy pulled me out of a ditch and begged me not to tell anyone he had pushed me. “Julian,” I whispered. “You were the boy at the playground.”

He dropped to his knees beside my bed. “I was nine,” he said, his voice cracking. “I only meant to tease you. I never forgot the sound when you fell.” The monitors beeped faster. Behind him, the door opened, and my mother stepped in, pale, holding a worn envelope. “He asked me to give you this the day you woke,” she said. “Read it before you decide anything.”