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I scoff and shake my head. “You’re fun.”

Since pink seems to be her thing, I select a bright magenta roll of sports tape from my drawer.

“Thought I was boring?” she says.

I’ll say.

“That’s what I meant.” It takes a couple minutes, but at last I finish wrapping the tape. “All right. Can I see what we’re covering up?”

“It’s on my back.” She awkwardly reaches behind her with her covered arm, but her range of motion is limited.

“May I?”

She hesitates for a moment, then nods and turns away from me. I take the hem and slide it up but don’t see anything. I raise it higher, expecting to see a shitty tattoo. Then I see it. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I suck in a breath. I’m quickly sobered when my eyes land on the deformed, jagged raised letters across the middle of her back.

MINE.

The word has been brutally carved into her skin; it’s at least ten inches wide, and about half as many inches tall. The last two letters curve upward slightly on the right side, in the direction of her armpit. My jaw stiffens and my stomach churns. The cuts aren’t clean, they’re frenzied; whatever tool made them was shoved in deeper in some places than others. Some lines extend higher than their neighbors, disconnected, like she put up a fight. There’s not much that makes me blink, but this . . . This is different.

I can’t tear my focus from the four-letter word.

MINE.

She turns her head to the side, waiting for me to respond, and I briefly glance up at her before returning to the scarred tissue. My throat bobs. She was mutilated.

Anna releases a nervous chuckle. “Wow, did I finally find something to shut you up?”

I clear my throat. “Sorry, I’m a slow reader.” I force down the anger. “Guessing the breakup didn’t end with ‘let’s be friends’?”

Shockingly, she laughs, and the levity helps me mentally regroup and remain professional instead of demanding who did this. I want to shake the name out of her. “How old are these scars?”

“Three years.”

They’ve healed long enough to withstand tattooing. My fingers itch to trace over the textured flesh, but I resist.

“Sorry, I know it’s ugly. It makes people uncomfortable. I want it covered up.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I say quickly. “Let’s talk about what you want.”

We discuss what she’s looking for, and the style and placement. I’m shocked she’s allowing me so much creative control, but she’s told me what she wants it to represent. That level of trust, with a project this important, isn’t taken for granted. It’s probably a big step for her. I explain that sometimes scar tissue can be more painful to tattoo, but that doesn’t deter her. Unsurprising, she’s never so much as winced for me, despite having fairly long sessions.

“Do you mind waiting here a moment? I’d like to get some tracing paper from the back and mark the areas where we’ll need extra coverage. It will help me in the design process.”

She nods, still turned away from me, and I use the opening to grab the keys from her purse before heading toward the back of the shop.

I snatch an air tag from the supply room; we sometimes use them while we’re at conventions to keep track of our equipment. The late-summer rays beat down on me when I hurry out the rear exit doors. Glancing left to right, I spot her Honda Accord, unlock the passenger door, and pop the tag in her glove compartment.

I’ve never been built for safe, quiet, healthy boundaries. Maybe that’s what happens when too much of your life is spent being ruled by other people—you start chasing any moment that feels like something you can take. The rush, the sneaking around, getting in and out without being seen—it calls to me. Sharpens my thoughts and sends electricity coursing through my veins.

When I’m slipping past locks, systems, rules, whatever—my head goes quiet. I’m in control. There’s no waiting or asking for permission—no helplessness. That little hit of adrenaline reminds me I’m alive . . . and that I’m good enough to not get caught.

When I’m done, I lock the car again and grab the tracing paper on the way back to my station.

“Sorry, took a minute to find a fresh roll.”

“It’s fine.”

I get to work following the scars with a Sharpie. I didn’t lie, I do want to mark their location. “Am I able to take a couple photos?”