“I hate having to be so strict.

But she simply doesn’t understand what’s good for her.”

Dr.

Shepherd looked at me instead of at her.

“Do you take it off?” he asked.

“However often you’re supposed to, or not — do you take it off?”

I shook my head, slowly, my eyes still on his name tag.

Nana reached over and smoothed my hair behind my ear, the gesture of a woman arranging a child for a photograph.

“She gets embarrassed so easily,” she told him, with a light laugh.

“You know how young girls are.”

Before he could ask another question, I lifted my hand and pointed to the place below my left arm, where the chain had pressed a dark mark straight through my thin undershirt.

I did not say anything.

I only pointed.

It was, I think, the bravest thing I had done in a year, and it did not feel brave; it felt like stepping off a high place with my eyes shut.