[...] Come here, she said gently, leading me to a sink. Wash your hands. See if you can do it yourself. When I raise my head, I see myself in the mirror, and I put my hand over my mouth to hold back a scream. That’s not me, I cry, I don’t look like that. That’s not possible. In the mirror I see a worn-out, aged, stranger’s face with gray, scaly skin and red eyes. I look like I’m seventy, I sob, clinging to the nurse, who leans her head in on my shoulder. There, there, she says. I didn’t think of that, but don’t cry. When you start getting insulin it will be much better. You’ll get more meat on your bones and you’ll look like a young woman again. I promise. It happens all the time. When I’m in bed again, I lie there looking at my toothpick arms and legs, and for a moment I’m full of rage at Carl. Then I remember that I carry my share of the blame as well, and my rage disappears.