The trauma nurse had placed gauze around the edges but left the pattern visible for documentation. I saw the camera tag on the counter. I saw the plastic evidence bag.

I saw the INCIDENT REPORT clipped beside her chart, the top line stamped 11:08 p.m.

I noticed all of it because that was what medicine had trained me to do. Name the thing. Date the thing. Document the thing before emotion destroys the room.

But I was still her father.

And for one second, I nearly stopped being anything else.

The letters stretched from one shoulder blade to the other.