"Parking spaces."

Christopher blinked.  "Huh?"

"I was thinking about those special parking places with the wheelchair signs.  Mommy will be able to park there now.  It's a lot closer to the stores.  I think she'll like that."  He looked at me, snickered once, then burst out laughing.

As did the rest of them.

I almost joined in, but a quick look from Christopher—one that said, You've got a reprieve, Pretty Boy, but fuck-up and I'll kill you—kind of drained the humor from the moment for me.  So I just smiled and hoped that would suffice.

"Let's go," said Christopher.  "We need to get our game faces on."  He nodded toward me.  "He can help this time.  After he puts the others back in the duffel bag."

8. I Wish I Still Had Braces

It took several hours to re-apply everyone's makeup, as well as each individual prosthesis.  Rebecca and Arnold weren't terribly difficult, just time-consuming, but—just as Rebecca had predicted—Christopher's face took, it seemed, forever; most of it had been torn off so violently that it was beyond repair.  At least his nose and hairpiece had survived.  If we'd had to reconstruct the nose, God only knows how long it might have taken; as it was, making a new ear, cheek, and upper lip took the better part of four hours.

Their makeup kit was an extensive and expensive one.  Grendel had purchased it for them, and shown them how to apply the basics, as well as how to make and apply prosthetics.  "We had to wear our 'party faces' for the meetings," Rebecca explained.  "I don't think his friends ever really knew what he'd done to our faces; they just figured the makeup was all part of the fun."

They could only wear their false faces for four to five hours; after that, the latex and spirit gum started to really soak down into their tender flesh; it became incredibly painful after that, and potentially dangerous.  "It isn't as if we have skin to spare," said Christopher, an almost-apologetic tone in his voice.  I made no reply.  I couldn't figure him out; one minute he's a howling lunatic threatening to do a Dirty Harry all over my face, and the next he's this mild-mannered, sit-down-and-chat-for-a-spell-type who spoke to me as if I was one of the gang.

"You did a nice job with this," he said to me after I'd applied his new upper lip.  "I usually make it too thick and use too much spirit gum and it burns like hell."

"Don't talk," said Rebecca, applying the base and gently blending it.

Thomas did not get makeup of any kind; his burned skin was still far too sensitive to tolerate even so much as light powder.

"He's on an awful lot of pain killers," Rebecca whispered to me.  "Between his face and his legs having been cut off, he's always in a lot of pain.  Plus I have to rub a couple of different types of salves and ointments on his face three times a day."

"So you're the unofficial nurse of the group?"

"Yes.  I don't mind, not really.  But sometimes I get so busy with them I forget to take my own medicine, and that's not good."

"Do you still need pain killers, as well?"

She shook her head.  "Not so much anymore.  But I have to have my insulin shots."

"Do you have any with you?"

"Yes.  I keep it in a cooler with ice.  I got it in the mini-fridge over there."

"Where's the rest of the medicine?"

She nodded toward a large black square beside the closet; the thing was bigger than most suitcases, and easily twice as deep.  "It has a bunch of compartments that fold out.  Christopher said there's probably fifty or sixty thousand dollars' worth of drugs in that case alone."

"Are there others?"

"Uh-huh.  Two more just like that in the bus."  She finished blending the first layer of base, then decided that the corners of Christopher's mouth needed a bit more work.

I decided to use this opportunity to ask questions; Christopher wasn't in a position to open his mouth and protest.  I hoped.

"What's in the trailer?"

Christopher's hand shot up and grabbed her wrist; Rebecca gasped, almost dropping the applicator brush.  Christopher, not opening his mouth, stared at her and shook his head.  Back, then forth.  Once.

"I'm sorry," I said to both of them.  "I didn't mean to pry.  I don't want anyone getting into trouble.  It's not her fault, okay?  I was just curious."

Christopher gave a short, slow nod.

Rebecca made some last-minute touchups to the makeup around the prosthesis, added a little powder, then said, "Okay.  Go over by the air conditioner and kneel in front of it for a few minutes.  Make sure the air's right on your face and do not talk for at least five minutes or else that's all going to come loose."

Christopher gave her a look that only she could read; Rebecca smiled, then playfully slapped his arm.  "Go on, you.  Go dry your mug."

He went over to the air conditioner in the window and knelt.  After a moment, he reached over and turned the setting to high.  Cold air blasted into the room.

"Won't he catch a cold or something?" I asked.

"Probably, but it's the quickest way to make sure it dries.  How do I look?"  She sat back and cupped her hands around her face.  "Am I still supermodel material?"

I smiled.  "You look fine.  In fact, it looks a lot better than before.  It looks a lot more natural, I mean.  Did you…"  I leaned closer.  "…did you pinch some of the latex to make it look like wrinkles?"

"A little bit.  Did it work?"

I nodded my head.  "They look really good.  Hopefully no one will wonder why a fifteen-year-old girl has wrinkles around her eyes."

"I wanted to look more mature this time."

I sat back and examined the whole of her face.  "You know, you do.  You look older.  It works for you."

She smiled.  "You probably can't tell, but I'm blushing."

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No… it's just… I'm not used to having a nice guy look at me, that's all."

I glanced toward Christopher, who was still face-first in the arctic blast, then leaned closer to Rebecca.  "Can I ask you something personal?"

"In a minute.  Right now we need to get you fixed up."  She reached into her bag and pulled out a needle, thread, and several buttons.  "Your shirt.  Can't have you walking around with it torn up like that."  She leaned forward, found the first spot that was missing a button, and began sewing it back on.

"So you do seamstress duties, as well?"

She laughed.  "I've seen these guys try to sew.  They're really bad at it.  I mean, it's good for a laugh, but then I always have to fix up their thumbs and fingers because they jab themselves so much.  So"—she finished one button and began the next—"I decided it was easier for me if I did all the sewing.  What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"What happened to your voice?"

Another throaty laugh.  "You mean why do I sound like Lauren Bacall with a frog in her throat?"  She shrugged.  "They liked it when I screamed during the meetings.  The louder, the better.  Grendel liked to make me scream, too.  I feel like I've been screaming for two years.  I guess it messed up my throat, y'know?"

"Does it hurt to talk?"

"No.  Unless it does and I just got used to it.  Does that make sense?"