“Medicine?” I ask, surprised. I turn the little jar around in my hands, reading the label. I look up at him. Finally understanding. “This is for scars.” He runs a hand through his hair. Looks toward the wall. “Yes,” he says. “Now please give it back to me.” “Do you need help?” I ask. He stills. “What?” “This is for your back, isn’t it?” He runs a hand across his mouth, down his chin. “You won’t allow me to walk away from this with even an ounce of self-respect, will you?” “I didn’t know you cared about your scars,” I say to him. I take a step forward. He takes a step back. “I don’t.” “Then why
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