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guiltily, as if Dad had accused me of texting racy photographs of me in my underwear.
    "This," he concluded with an attorney's sense of drama, holding up a third paper, "was done a week ago."
    The last was a portrait of a little girl drafted in pencil and outlined in black ink. Though the drawing ended at the verge of the girl's hair, the details were crisp enough to appear animate. Dr. Singh seemed to lurch a little when she first took in the face. I'd done the same myself when I'd first seen it. When you looked into the portrait's eyes, it felt like the girl there was gazing back at you. There was life there, a soul.
    "This, according to Becky," Dad said, "is Jenny."

Chapter Three

    Becky
    Brewster, New York
    May 12

    Gwen stood back from the door, her eyes widening then narrowing. "Becky? Is that you ?"
    I smiled self-consciously. "Oh, it's me, all right."
    "I didn't recognize you at first. You look so... different."
    "I hear that a lot lately."
    Gwen grabbed my hand and tugged me into the house. "You've lost weight."
    "Yeah. I've been dropping the LBs like a girl on a three-finger diet."
    Gwen usually saw me in designer clothing, heavy makeup, heels. I'd always been a little plump, but not anymore. The Becky that stood before her was slender and shapely. Just a few brushes of blush to outline my newly defined cheekbones. A blue sweater. Capris. Flats. Not a hint of jewelry except a simple stainless steel watch with a plain leather band.
    "You've straightened your hair."
    I pulled the ponytail from the back of my head and examined it. "Nope. Somehow the accident knocked the curl out of it."
    "I always loved your hair but..." She smiled sincerely, nodding, "you look good. Really good."
    Gwen and I had been friends since we were seven, when what you wore or where you lived counted for nothing. We'd met at summer camp in upstate New York. "Summer friends" was how we described our relationship, because we rarely saw or even e-mailed each other during the school year, but always managed to reconnect in June.
    Gwen pulled me further into the house, where her mother was reading in the kitchen. There were more greetings, more amazed gasps at how different I looked. They made me spin around to show off my new figure. When her mother retreated upstairs, Gwen and I settled in the family room where floor-to-ceiling picture windows looked onto a backyard filled with a ruddy golden sunset.
    I took a long pull on the glass of soda that Gwen offered me, the ice tinkling pleasantly as I cradled it in my hands. "I can't tell you how good it is to be here."
    "I'm so glad you came. I was petrified when I heard about the accident. Did your mom tell you that I visited you in the hospital, when you were still out of it? They wouldn't let me see you, of course, but I did want to be there."
    I smiled and tried to laugh, but it came out sounding breathy and tired. "She did. Thank you. And thanks for the cards and flowers. They meant a lot."
    Something unseen that seemed to connect Gwen and me snapped into place the way it always did when we reunited for the summer. We fell into the easy talk of old friends whose trust is understood. I'd forgotten how much I missed this, how long it had been since I'd connected with another human being. I loved the hypnotic rise and fall of our voices, the comfortable exchanges, the effortless repartee. It was so nice to talk about nothing: boys, school, summer plans, what college might be like in the fall. Gwen was going to Rutgers. I had missed a good chunk of the spring term but by some miracle I was on track to graduate. I was still contemplating my options.
    "It's funny," Gwen said, pressing her tongue along the side of her teeth contemplatively, "you look so much younger and at the same time you seem more mature."
    "Yeah, Life After the Accident," I replied, my eyes losing focus. "It's only been five or six months, but it seems like an age. Sometimes I feel like an old lady." I met Gwen's gaze and smiled