The doctor calls me in. He asks me, “What do you see?” with his hand over one of my eyes. “Jude.” “Now the other?” “Jude.” “I see. Not much change. Well, at least it’s slow-moving.” I think of the patch of sunlight. “We’ll keep an eye on it,” he says. I drive to Jude’s but I don’t go inside. Instead I look at myself in the rearview mirror, looking for whatever it is that deforms me to unlovable—slime or freckles or a tail.
