The Man Who Saw Everything**
When I was thirteen, my kitchen exploded.
One minute I was reaching for a glass of water after dance practice, and the next, the world became fire and screaming metal. The official report said a neighbor had improperly installed a gas line during renovations. “You’re lucky you survived,” the firefighters told my mother as they wheeled me away.
Lucky.
That word became my curse.
The burns covered the left side of my face, my neck, my shoulder, and parts of my chest and arms. Skin grafts helped, but nothing could erase the thick, rope-like scars that twisted across my features like a roadmap of pain. By the time I turned thirty, I had mastered the art of invisibility. High collars, long sleeves, heavy makeup, and avoiding mirrors. I worked from home as a freelance graphic designer. I went out only when necessary. And I had never been touched by a man who wasn’t a doctor.
Until Callahan Reed.
