Michael drew in a sharp breath as his eyes fixed on Rudy's back. Beneath the boy's thin frame, long, jagged scars crisscrossed the skin, nearly covering its entire width. Some were faded with time; others were still raw, angry red lines—no more than a few weeks old.
"Rudy…" Michael began, but stopped himself.
Was it really wise to ask now? They had barely just met.
"Hm? What's up?" Rudy asked, halfway into pulling on a crisp white shirt.
Michael's gaze faltered. The sight was almost too much to bear, even for someone who had seen death before.
"Oh—you mean these, huh?" Rudy said, glancing over his shoulder. The playful energy in his voice vanished, replaced by something hollow. His eyes lost their brightness, dimming as if someone had pulled the light out of them.
"You… you don't have to explain," Michael said quickly, almost defensively.
