Five minutes later:
“Maybe.”
Marcus answered.
Lily told.
He did not threaten Tyler.
He did not say bullies were cowards.
He asked:
“What did he say after you left?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t invent.”
She sniffed.
“He called me Frankenstein.”
“Bad.”
“What do I say tomorrow?”
“You decide if you want to talk to him.”
“I don’t.”
“Then don’t.”
“What if he says again?”
Marcus thought.
“You can say, ‘Don’t talk about my body.’”
“That sounds like teacher.”
“Teachers sometimes right.”
“Boring.”
“Want dramatic?”
“Yes.”
“Say, ‘I survived brain surgery. What did you do this summer?’”
Lily laughed.
Emily shook head.
“No.”
Marcus smiled.
“Fine.”
Then he became serious.
“Kid.”
Lily looked.
“You do not have to make your scar educational for everybody.”
“If someone asks kindly and you want to answer, answer.”
“If not, no.”
“You don’t owe story.”
That mattered.
The school handled Tyler properly.
Not expulsion.
Not public shaming.
He apologized with counselor present.
“I’m sorry I called you Frankenstein.”
Lily looked.
“Why?”
He frowned.
“Because it was mean.”
“Did you think it?”
He hesitated.
Children are painfully honest.
“I thought staples looked like movie.”
“They’re gone.”
“I know.”
Tyler looked down.
“My mom said I stare at people.”
Lily almost smiled.
“She’s right.”
Tyler nodded.
“Can we still be friends?”
Lily thought.
“Maybe later.”
Good.
Forgiveness not instant.
The class learned simple rule from counselor:
Questions about bodies require permission.
Lily stayed.
By spring, she sometimes went whole school day with hood down.
Not always.
The tumor did not return that year.
Or next.
Each scan remained terrifying.
Every time, Emily became short-tempered two days before.
Lily called it “scan Mom.”
At nine, Lily asked Marcus:
“Do you still get scans?”
“No.”
“Lucky.”
“I get other old-man appointments.”
“You are old.”
“Still rude.”
At ten, Lily stopped wearing hoodies daily.
At eleven, her hair covered much of scar when down.
She sometimes tied hair back deliberately.
That surprised Emily.
“Why?”
Lily shrugged.
“It gets hot.”
Not symbolic.
Perfect.
Still Me Hoodies continued at hospital.
Leah formalized supply system only because child-life staff needed predictable inventory.
Marcus’s club held one annual fundraiser.
No child photos without permission.
No before-and-after imagery.
No “warrior” language unless child chose.
Lily had grown to hate adults calling sick children warriors.
“What if they’re tired?”
she asked.