well soon” cards leaned against the windowsill and were scattered about the room. My meaningless words were lost among them. The day prior, the mascot from Michigan State University came in to see Easton. The amount of love and support sent Easton’s way was incredible. Kristen pulled out her camera. She aimed it at Easton. Snap. She took several photos with her phone. Flash. With her tablet. Click. She leaned over and took selfies with him laying in bed. Snap, snap, snap. Even then, she wanted to keep the past all in one place to one day find it again. Flash to a month after Easton’s artwork on the Etch-a-Sketch, the hospital discharged him, sending him home with a lengthy grocery list of medicines. Wherever Easton went, he had to wear a helmet. Easton was still Easton, only made new. This new Easton endured seizures almost every day, could barely form sentences, and wasn’t allowed to do any physical activity lest he injure himself again. This new Easton attended occupational therapy meetings, physical therapy sessions, and had to go back to Children’s Hospital for regular checkups. His only food was liquid. This new Easton was a product of something I might’ve been able to prevent. Because of me, he was different now. Every time Easton had a seizure, every time his sentences ran off into incoherence, I was reminded of the time I might’ve been able to save him. From there, I grew up bitter, tethered to that moment. These days, Easton walks around with a scar that covers half his head. Recently, I saw a Facebook post from some kid I’ll never know. It was addressed to Easton, and it read: That scar on your head looks badass.