Neither man stared at Sam's left cheek. At the ravaged flesh. She had come to the conclusion the wounds looked like a topographic map, a satellite camera looking down on ruins, or some hedge garden, the green going red, nature infected by poisoned soil.
Sam looked over her left shoulder. Dad and Mom stood in the dining room, more or less all of ten feet away from the living room. A chair turned away from the dining room table, facing the living room like Mom had been sitting, waiting for Sam to appear.
Mom smiled. Her quick smile. There and gone.
Pete and Mr. Krill sat back down on the couch.
Pete looked at the recliner just to Sam's left but didn't ask her if she wanted to sit down. That earned him a point. Since the cops had found her and since the first of many trips to a hospital, Sam had lost count of the people asking her if she didn't want to sit down.
The gesture had worn out its welcome.
"The asshole cut my fucking face off," she'd kept wanting to say. "Not my fucking legs."
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