The Almost Murder and Other Stories by Theresa Saldaña

damp garden shed in my own backyard for two hours just the week earlier because I didn’t want the cute landscaper’s son to see my face. I laughed and cried. Others understood and commiserated.
    At the end of the evening, we chatted as we stood in line for the author’s autograph on our books.
    I felt sad to leave the warmth of the Burn Unit, but it was my curfew: 9:00 p.m. I had to get back to my own room; twelve hours later, I’d be discharged. It felt natural to hug my friends goodbye.
    Jordy said, “Well, you’re getting sprung—come visit us.”
    I said that I would—and meant it.
    In my room, I thought of the difficulties I’d been through over race and ethnicity before my accident. Then I remembered all the faces I’d seen that evening on the Burn Unit. Black, Asian, Anglo, Latino. None of this mattered. We all hurt. We’d all been altered. We were all alive. Our pain and survival linked us.
    In the morning, my doctor told me that my growth was benign and bloodwork was excellent. While he filled out discharge papers, I went up to share my news and say goodbye to my friends again. They could tell I didn’t want to leave. I found myself crying as they hugged me. It was a good sort of crying—tears of love, recognition and connection.
    The first thing I did at home was to call St. Joe’s Volunteer Center. Luckily, the coordinator, Chantel Green, was in. I asked to become a Burn Unit volunteer, giving Delgado as my reference. A new training session would be starting that Monday.
    My parents had overheard everything and were beaming. I didn’t know it, but Mom had come to visit me the night before. Tiffany had told her where I’d gone and that I might become a volunteer. Nothing could have pleased them more than for me to be involved in service and with people much like myself.
    That afternoon, instead of surfing the Web and watching TV, I cleaned out my closet and tried on outfits suitable for the classroom and hospital.
    Saturday morning, I went to St. Joe’s. Stopping by the third floor, I asked Delgado if I could go up to the unit. She beamed and said it was fine, that I should go find Marta there.
    I went up and found Marta at the nurse’s station. She looked pleased to see me and suggested that I join an art therapy class. Since I still saw doctors at St. Joe’s forfollow-up visits, she could list me as an outpatient, qualifying me for activities.
    Lousy as I am at painting, the thought of splashing a brush around sounded good to me. I followed Marta’s directions to a big, bright studio with artwork and easels everywhere.
    The teacher gestured for me to take a place. Of my trio of friends, only Jordy was there. I felt right at home, though, and painted a pastel, modern-art watercolor. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but I liked it. Jordy waved before going off to physical therapy.
    Afterward, I met Dad outside and chattered about my day, just as I used to do before the crash. He smiled and told me my face was glowing. I accepted the compliment and didn’t call myself Monster Girl as I used to.
    On Sunday, the slowest day on any hospital ward, I went back to the Burn Unit. A game of Monopoly was starting up in the recreation room. There was a spot for me. We played and talked about nothing and everything.
    On Monday, I started training. There were six of us: three seniors, a young married girl, a college intern and me. We had lessons in the classroom and tasks on the floor, where we learned on our feet.
    Patients, fellow volunteers and staff members were interested in me, my scars, my story. I told it again and again and didn’t feel embarrassed. After classes, I would visit my friends in their rooms, or watch TV in the lounge with them.
    By day, I helped patients as a student volunteer. At night, we were peers. We had dinner together in the Burn Café often. Afterward, I’d go home for dessert with my parents.
    When I