I take a few steps and pull up the sleeve of my left arm. He'll see it there - the lumpy, rippled scar from Johanna's knife, the size of an apple or a fist. And the half-melted fissures where old skin met the new grafts. The doctors of 13 did what they could, but they aren't miracle workers. They can't erase scars this deep.

It's some form of proof, or at least it will be in Gale's eyes.