“Who?”
“Anonymous,” she said.
I didn’t think about it again.
On a Saturday morning in May, I drove Wyatt to the little wig studio in Bramble Creek myself.
The scissors closed with a soft crunch.
Eleven inches of my son’s hair came away in the stylist’s hand. One long brown ponytail, tied off at both ends with blue rubber bands.
She held it up so he could see.
Wyatt stared at it in the mirror. Then he reached up and touched the back of his neck, bare for the first time in a year and a half.
“Feels weird,” he said.
“You look like you again,” I said.
He shook his head. He was looking at the ponytail, not at himself.
“No,” he said quietly. “She’s going to look like her again.”
Two weeks later, the wig was ready.
Wyatt carried the box to Harper’s house in both hands like it was made of glass.
