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hand is a bit more swollen from all the fluids he’s taking in ... I’m a little worried about the blood flow, but it’s too soon to tell whether he’ll need an escharotomy.”
    Before she can ask the question, he begins explaining the foreboding medical term in simple detail. “An escharotomy is a surgical procedure used on full-thickness, third-degree burns when there is edema—or swelling—that limits circulation.”
    Valerie struggles to process this as Dr. Russo continues more slowly. “The burns have made the skin very rigid and hard, and as Charlie becomes rehydrated, the burned tissue swells and becomes even tighter. This causes pressure, and if the pressure continues to build, the circulation can become compromised. If that happens, we’ll have to go in there and make a series of incisions to release the pressure.”
    “Is there a downside to the procedure?” she asks, knowing instinctively that there is always a downside to everything.
    Dr. Russo nods. “Well, you always want to avoid surgery if you can,” he says, an air of careful patience to his words. “There would be a small risk of bleeding and infection, but we can typically control those things . . . All in all, I’m not too worried.”
    Valerie’s mind rests on the word too, analyzing the nuances and gradations of his worry, the precise meaning of his statement. Seeming to sense this, Dr. Russo smiles slightly, squeezes Charlie’s left foot through two layers of blankets, and says, “I’m very pleased with his progress and hopeful that we’re moving in a great direction . . . He’s a fighter; I can tell.”
    Valerie swallows and nods, wishing her son didn’t have to be a fighter. Wishing she didn’t have to be a fighter for him. She was tired of fighting even before this happened.
    “And his face?” she asks.
    “I know it’s difficult . . . But we have to wait and see there, too . . . It will take a few days to determine whether those burns are second or third degree . . . When we declare those injuries, we can devise a game plan from there.”
    Valerie bites her lower lip and nods. Several seconds of silence pass as she notices that his dark beard has come in since the night before, forming a shadow across his jaw and chin. She wonders whether he’s been home yet, and whether he has children of his own.
    He finally speaks, saying, “For now, we’ll just keep the skin clean and dressed and keep a close eye on him.”
    “Okay,” she says, nodding again.
    “We will keep a close eye on him,” Dr. Russo says, reaching out to touch her elbow. “You try to get some sleep tonight.”
    Valerie musters a smile. “I’ll try,” she says, lying again.
    Later that night, Valerie is wide awake on her rocking chair, thinking of Charlie’s father and the night they met at a dive bar in Cambridge, mere days after her big fight with Laurel. She had come in alone, knowing that it was a bad idea even before she saw him sitting in the corner, also alone, chain-smoking and looking so mysterious and beautiful and thrillingly angst-ridden. She decided that she needed a mindless hookup, and if given the chance, she would leave with him. Which is exactly what she ended up doing, four glasses of wine and three hours later.
    His name was Lionel, but everybody called him “Lion,” which should have been a red flag. For starters, he looked like a lion, with his striking gold-toned skin and green eyes, his thick mane of curly hair, and huge, callused hands. Then there was his temperament—remote and languid with flashes of anger. And like a lion, he was perfectly content to let the lioness in his life do all the work—be it his laundry, the cooking, or taking care of his bills. Valerie chalked it up to his preoccupation with his work, but Jason insisted his laziness stemmed from a sense of entitlement typical of beautiful women. She could see her brother’s point, even in the throes of infatuation when most women are blinded by their attraction,