John Kuykendall

My own Flesh and Blood John Kuykendall

along the outermost edge of the shaved margin of scalp, he noticed a slight indentation in her flesh, a place where the hair had started to regrow, but had been likewise sheared at some point, because the new hair was only a few centimeters long. With a frown, Andrew brushed his fingertips against this peculiar depression. A thin red line bisected it, a scar from a now-healed incision. What the hell? For a moment, he leaned away from the bed, reaching for the lamp on his nightstand. Hooking the lip of the shade with his hand, he flipped it enough to redirect the light in a broad pool against his bed, bathing Alice. Now he studied her head again with bewildered fascination, finding two more sets of the curious dimples and scars near the crown of her skull, another closer to her hairline and at least three near the cap of her pate. It's like the skull's gone soft there or something, he thought. Or like it's gone altogether