Eunseo released the fasteners on her elasticized pressure suit and slid it down her arms. Tossing the garment onto her bed, she reached for the bottle of rose-hip oil. The liquid was cool in her hand and she waited a moment to let it warm before spreading it evenly across the red, puckered skin on her upper chest. She pressed her fingers into the thickened ridges, massaging her scars. Her gaze grew distant as she gave herself up to the routine. An hour of massage on her chest, then another hour on her arm and, finally, an hour on her face. If her hands were sore by then, her mother would help.

The deep tissue massage helped increase blood flow and stop the scar tissue beneath her skin from becoming rigid and constricted. Between it and the pressure mask and suit she wore twenty-three out of twenty-four hours, she was doing her best to ensure the best outcome for her skin grafts.

It would never be enough, though. She would never be the same person again.

Eunseo glanced toward the mirror on her bedroom wall. The clear plastic pressure mask she wore on her face was shiny in the overhead light. She returned her gaze to the window, focusing instead on the blue sky outside.

She didn't want to think about all the would-haves and could-haves. Not today. Just as no amount of medical intervention would erase her scars entirely, no amount of dwelling on the past would change it. This was her life now.

So she concentrated on the day ahead. Once she had finished with her massage, she would shower and dress and then walk to the coffee shop. She wondered what problems Dear Ahjumma would address today. Eunseo loved the Bridezilla letters best—Ahjumma had a reputation for being tough on demanding brides-to-be and it always made Eunseo smile. Somehow, reading about other people's lives, their problems and complaints, made her own seem less daunting. Made her feel part of the world, instead of apart from it.

A tap sounded on her bedroom door. Eunseo instinctively reached for her dressing gown, covering herself loosely. Stupid, given how often her parents had seen her scars. But she couldn't help herself.

"Come in," she said.

The door opened and her father popped his head in. "How's it going, sweetheart?" he asked, offering her a warm smile.

"Good. Just doing my thing," she said, indicating the bottle of massage oil.

He nodded. "Your mother and I were thinking of taking in a movie this afternoon. You want to come along?"

"Thanks, but you guys deserve some time on your own. I'll come some other time." She had to fight hard to keep her voice as casual as his.

Her fat